


The Bastards of King's Landing

by ChemicalChance



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChemicalChance/pseuds/ChemicalChance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While relaxing in the Godswood on the eve of he and Jon Snow's departure to The Wall, Tyrion comes upon a scene that leads him to make a decision that will surely incur his father's wrath, and shape the face of events to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a plot bunny I had, and ended up rather longer than I expected. It's unbetaed, as I'm new, so any mistakes are mine. Characters and setting belong to GRRM and HBO; characters' ages are assumed to be closer to the HBO series than the books.

Tyrion had always been fond of godswoods, when he happened to find one to avail himself of. Not, of course, that he was motivated by any sense of piety; no, it was the quiet and solitude that attracted him. There was also the fact that people who felt themselves to be in a place of worship did not seem to gaze on him quite so queerly when they saw him. Their misgivings were still there, of course, something he could find in their eyes if he cared to seek it - but it was not quite so naked, which was something of a respite for the dwarf. They were pleasant enough places, besides, with the stark contrast of the heart tree's crimson leaves against its white limbs, and the bubbling sulfurous pools shedding a bone warming heat that soothed his stunted limbs in a way he could seldom find in the northlands.

So it was that when night came and he could not sleep or bear to sit cramped at his desk another moment, rather than endure what few straggling drunks remained in the great hall (his kingly good brother not least among them), Tyrion made his way to the godswood. It was quiet there as always, save for the rhythmic chirruping of some insistent bug or another, and while it was a little difficult to see he found he was indeed able to read by the bright northern moonlight. He sat by one of the smaller pools with his trousers rolled up to his thighs and his legs in the water, relishing in the heat soaking into his joints. Tyrion sat there for some time, nursing the contents of his wineskin and reading from a book he'd seen fit to liberate from the the Starks' library, some laughable tome about the horrors that supposedly lay beyond the Wall. For all that the idea of such creatures both fascinated and alarmed him, he just couldn't bring himself to believe it were true. A combination of adversaries so fierce would surely have managed to breach The Wall in some manner significant enough to have been verifiably seen some time in near-recent memory. 

Tyrion was alerted to the presence of something else in the forest when he heard a twig snap under what sounded like a considerable weight. He jumped, startled, and it did little to assuage his sudden nervousness when he looked back and found himself nearly nose-to-nose with a great white direwolf, already somewhat larger than any of its distant southron cousins. _The bastard's,_ he recalled fleetingly, _Ghost, was it?_ While he was pondering his next course of action it became apparent he had nothing immediate to fear. The animal leaned in to get a good whiff of him, something that nearly caused him to require a change of smallclothes, then withdrew a little, regarded him impassively for a few seconds, and trotted off. Tyrion's eyes followed Ghost as he walked off into a denser patch of trees to join his sibling, an even larger grey and brown specimen. Tyrion wasn't quite sure which of the Starks that one belonged to, he had half a mind that it belonged to the younger daughter or eldest son, but he couldn't place it.

Once they'd met, the wolves merely laid down beside one another, far enough away and disinterested enough in Tyrion that he supposed he faced no immediate threat from the animals. Still, his wineskin had run dry, and they discomfited him enough that he resolved to return to his chambers, have another cup of wine, and retire for the evening. He removed his feet from the pool, pulled the legs of his breeches back down around his ankles, and pulled his feet back into his soft leather boots. He was waddling off, far enough that the wolves had escaped his vision, when another, more interesting sound stopped him in his tracks.

"Gods, Robb," someone rasped in what might have been anguish or ecstasy. Someone, now that Tyrion thought about it, whose voice was rather familiar. The half-formed suspicion lead him to proceed with as quietly as he could manage in the direction of the sound, keeping low (as though he had any choice) and tight to the trees.  
Tyrion might very well have half expected what he saw, but nothing could truly have readied him for the sight of Ned Stark's heir pressing his bastard son back against a treetrunk, restraining him with two hands flat across his chest and joining their mouths in what could not have been any less brotherly a fashion. One of Robb's eyes was welling a little, from drink or emotion Tyrion couldn't say. Snow made a grunting noise that could have been encouragement or irritation and managed to slide a hand around Robb's spine, pulling his face back to free himself as best he could. 

Still, the boys were nose to nose and Jon's lips were moving against Robb's when he grit out, “You don't get to make this harder. You _can't._ ” Some small part of Tyrion's mind reflected wryly that he could be forgiven for thinking the bastard was referring to certain parts of his anatomy, but the greater part of his awareness was set to figuring out _what_ precisely was going on here. Not that it wasn't... evident, but then, it wasn't as though he'd come upon Snow sounding so distraught over a kitchen wench. 

“Jon, you can't go,” Robb protested in a voice Tyrion perceived to be thick with drink, “not to the Wall. Go for a week, a month, a year, even – just don't go somewhere you can't come back from.” Jon let out another of those inscrutable noises in reply. “Do you want to go with father? I'll speak to him, he'll find something for you to do. It's a bloody bed of intrigue in the capital, he'll need someone he can trust to be close to the girls...”

That earned Robb a bitter laugh and a valiant attempt on his half-brother's part to shove him away. Snow, it seemed, had indulged in more wine than he was used to at the dinner table as well. “Oh, he will, will he? And how will Sansa take to that, her embarrassment of a bastard brother trailing about?” Robb held fast to Jon's shoulders and tried to protest that he didn't give a damn what Sansa thought, but Jon only cut him off with, “How about your fucking mother? How about that, Robb? You can't truly believe I'd really leave you if there were really another way?” 

_By the Gods,_ Tyrion thought incredulously, _this is every bit what it looks like, isn't it? And that's why the bastard was so bloody morose earlier._

As if in answer to the thought, the heir loosed a noise that was half growl and half sob and cupped a hand gently around Snow's cheek, bringing him in for another kiss, this one more gentle than the last but no less intimate. Snow's body melded forward into Stark's, both arms coming up to wrap around his shoulders. His hands roved delicately around Robb's back and Robb's began working distractedly at the belt cinching his tunic. 

“Perhaps,” Robb started as he slipped the belt from Jon's hips, sounding so forlorn that he didn't even sound as if he believed himself, “perhaps I can change your mind for you.” Then he laughed, as though he thought it had sounded as trite as Tyrion had. “And if not, well, there's naught I can do but make the best of tonight.” 

It would certainly have been bad enough the other way around – it would be bad enough were she to find out at all - but Tyrion couldn't help but think what a particular apopletic rage would seize Lady Stark at the sight of her eldest son sinking slowly to his knees before the bastard she loathed so, and in this place he was to hold sacred, no less. Robb's hands on Jon's body as they trailed their way down were both drunkenly clumsy and unspeakably tender, seeming like an attempt to memorize every angle and contour they crossed on their way down.

_This has become rather twistedly voyeuristic,_ Tyrion told himself, _and like as not I'll learn nothing more of use._ Still, although Tyrion felt himself to be neither a buggerer nor a pederast – though he had no particular qualms against buggery, it only meant all the more wenches for him - he had come to find something mesmerizing about the scene before him. He knew what Cersei would have said it was, had she not sneeringly suggested his sexuality was in fact at issue. Damn my fool romantic heart, he thought, and nearly laughed aloud at the thought of the scene before him as being anything near high romance. Fumbling teenaged boys, confusing the feelings one had for the first person to touch their cock and the hopeless forbidding of their situation for a love they'd never get over.

And yet... And yet, what more had Tyrion been once? Allowing for the fact that Snow and Stark were in, if anything, a less sustainable relationship than he and Tysha had had, and allowing for (this with some bitterness) the fact that the boys seemed to be _mutually_ besotted... How different was it? And if it was not so very different, then might the boys not find themselves with the same hollow ache Tyrion still sometimes felt in his chest decades later? It was that that kept Tyrion rooted to his spot. If he could not think of a way to resolve the situation – and the foolish part of him was trying – he could at least spare them the humiliation of being caught out in what would likely be their last tryst. _They're only boys at play,_ he insisted to himself, _and one off to become a man, on the morrow. It would be cruel of me to take this last from them._

Stark had sunk fully to his knees and begun pressing his open mouth to Snow's torso, one hand sliding slowly up and down his thigh and the other rucking his top up so high that Snow had finally taken his point and shed it, pooling it beside his feet and sinking back against the tree with a sigh that, this time, was only a noise of simple pleasure. The first offending garment taken care of, Robb had curled his fingers around the top of Jon's leggings, and he moved his mouth from the bastard's stomach, kissing from hip to thigh to the inside of his knee as he peeled the clothing away. Snow, who appeared to lack undergarments of any kind, stepped out of them obligingly and Robb slid a little more up the length of his body once more.

Jon made a choking noise deep in his throat and his knees nearly buckled when Robb pressed his mouth, harder than before, against the meat of his inner thigh. Jon's hands slid down to Robb's shoulder, the nails digging in. His reaction became self-explanatory when Robb pulled back, revealing a great purple mark that had to have hurt like hell to receive. Robb muttered something about wanting the marks to be there, so there would be something left when Jon was gone, and leaned back in to leave a matching bruise on the other thigh. By the time he was done, Jon was biting his lip and his face was glowing with sweat. His arousal was still evident, but the look lining his face was now reflecting more pain than lasciviousness. It was a different look from his usual dour demeanor, more raw and more real.

When Robb took Jon's cock into his mouth, one hand wrapped around what he couldn't manage and the other using a thumb to stroke Jon's hip in a slow cadence, Tyrion still didn't feel more than the most cursory tweak of excitement, but he did fancy himself an aesthete, and the look on Snow's face as he tilted his face back into what faint light there was, coupled with the long, lean stretch of his body, knotted tight with pleasure, and the soft moan that passed his lips... well, it was the stuff of particularly lewd art, the sort one might find in a pleasure house devoted to such things.

Robb slowly began to pick up his pace, and Snow was becoming more undone by the moment. It started with a hand weaved into his own hair, pressing hard against his forehead, then progressed to an already familiar, repeated whisper of, “Oh, Robb,” less ambiguous in its meaning, this time. Snow peeled his other hand from the trunk of the tree, leaning back against it more heavily, as he threaded his other hand through Robb's hair, moving it in time with his mouth but not trying to set his own rhythm. If there had been any doubt in Tyrion's mind before, there was none now. This had happened many a time before, that or the Stark heir had been fellating stableboys or the Greyjoy ward.

Still, there was something of the untried boy left in Snow, for it was not long before the young man mumbled a plea not to stop, and his thighs began to contract rhythmically, rocking him a little forward into the willing mouth before him, and with a last keen of, “Fuck, Robb!” he bucked a final time, froze for a few seconds, and then his knees began to knock together. Tyrion could not help but smirk a little, the boy had mewled like a maid and with the length of his hair was near as pretty. Robb released him and rose to his knees, wrapping a gentle arm around the small of Jon's back to help his quivering partner slide to the ground. 

Robb guided Jon's head down to his clothed chest, pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I love you, you know,” he said hoarsely, sounding a bit as though he'd done some damage to his throat. “I always will, Jon. There's nothing you can do about that, you bloody bastard.” 

There was a strange softness to the epithet, and Jon didn't tense in the way he had when Tyrion had named him so earlier that evening. Jon swallowed hard, closed his eyes. He was still trembling a little and now he was making a patent effort to maintain his self-control. When he opened his eyes, though, they were dry, and he forced a tremulous smile. “I know,” he replied softly. “Me too.” Then he tilted his face to his brother's, and this time it was Jon who closed the distance between them, and they were looking into each other's eyes the whole time. The dull ache Tyrion felt in his chest felt fit to burst, and as foolish as he felt about it his heart was in his throat. He no longer knew whether the pain he felt was new, and for the boys, or old, and borne of his own self-pity.

The boys were still entwined in one another, totally lost, now, and Tyrion knew now was the time to seize his escape. He darted out from behind the tree, sure he could escape unnoticed if he could only get behind the next one... and then the wolves were upon him, Ghost and the grey one, baying, and suddenly Snow and Stark were both gaping at him with the matching faces of children caught thieving tarts.

If there were any blessing to this situation, it's only that the wolves did not seem to be menacing him, only keeping him in place. Nor could Tyrion avoid the slightest of chuckles at the boys' hasty attempt to recover themselves. Still with those same guilty expressions, Robb and Jon had stood – Robb standing behind Jon, holding Jon's discarded tunic in front of his nudity, as though that were going to help them look any more innocent at all. Jon did finally seem to notice, shooting Robb a sharp look as he moved his hands to hold his flimsy cover himself, before going back to his mute gaping.

“Lord Tyrion,” Jon spluttered, burning to the tips of his ears. “I swear to you, it's not what it looks...”

“I'm not at all sure what it looks like,” Tyrion lied mildly. There could have been no mistaking their lover's embrace for boys' roughhousing, but it might help him keep his throat to demur. “And I'll thank you to call off your dogs.” 

Robb directed a nod at Grey Wind almost immediately, despite the fact he seems to have been struck mute. Jon eyed Tyrion sullenly for a long moment, like he'd like to tell Ghost to have his throat out, before directing a similar gesture at Ghost. Both padded to their respective masters' sides. 

“You can't tell Lady Stark,” Jon croaked, as pale now as he was red a few moments ago. “I'll be gone by noon tomorrow, my lord, you know that! But Robb... Gods, Robb...” he trailed off, choked.

Tyrion had grown rather weary of hearing that, but he bit off the remark before he could say so. He was also seized by a sudden revelation – to whatever degree incest was present in this relationship, Catelyn Stark was bloody well responsible for it. She made no secret of her revulsion towards the bastard, no pretense of including him in her family, and so whatever hesitation Snow and Stark might have felt had undoubtedly been blunted by Jon's vague sense of never having been a true part of Robb's family. _Raise children as siblings, like as not the idea would repulse most of them. But when you raise them as dear friends..._

“Now, now, my dear boys,” he said smoothly. “Whatever should you think I'd have to gain by telling Lady Stark about... this?”

Robb ran a hand through that copper-tinted Tully hair of his, managing to look almost stern even in the face of his embarrassment. Tyrion supposed that had something to do with his being clothed. “It may not be my mother, but it will be someone, won't it?” he asked sullenly.

What was there to gain from the knowledge that Ned Stark's firstborn and bastard sons were buggering one another? Tyrion was sure he would someday encounter a situation where that knowledge might be to his advantage, but when and where that might be was uncertain and it did not, in truth, seem the sort of thing that would be an exceedingly valuable trump card.

That was when the most fool thought he'd had throughout the whole sick scene bubbled to the surface of his mind. “You there, bastard,” he called at Jon. “You've trained at arms since you cut your milk teeth, haven't you?”

Jon bristled and eyed him warily, but must have judged himself to be in no position to refuse an answer. “Yes, my lord.”

“Can you care for a horse and pour wine?”

Jon looked at him with poorly concealed irritiation. “Yes, of course.”

“Hmm, so, you're trained at arms, you can care for a horse and pour drink... And after all, we know you've a strong, young body,” Tyrion added wryly as an afterthought, just to watch Jon squirm. “It might be I've decided I've a sudden need for a squire.”

Robb was eying him as if to ask what possible reason a dwarf could need a squire, but Jon, perhaps already getting a sense of what Tyrion meant or perhaps just being the more circumspect of the two, managed to ask, “A... squire, my lord?” 

“Yes, Snow, a squire,” Tyrion continued impatiently. “It would first take you to The Wall with me, which should give you plenty of time to back out should you so choose. Then I expect we would be back to King's Landing. It may mean years of servitude, but if you do well, it should also mean a knighthood. A knighthood,” Tyrion continued pointedly, “which would allow you to pledge your service to any lord that might be willing to take you.”

Looking as if he might like to pass out, Jon opened his mouth, then closed it again. He repeated that a few times before spluttering, “And a son of Tywin Lannister is going to take Ned Stark's bastard for a squire? Do you even have the liberty to make me this offer? Will your father stand for that?”

_It shall enrage my dear father and my sweet sister,_ Tyrion replied in his head, _which will only make this all the sweeter._ Aloud, he responded mildly, “I hadn't meant to give him a say. My father does not overmuch concern himself in my affairs. Besides, Snow, it's not as if I mean to have you arrayed in ribbons and delivered to the Kingslayer. Do you not remember what I told you about dwarves earlier this evening?”

Snow looked patently uncomfortable, but he did, and repeated slowly, “All dwarves are bastards in their fathers' eyes.”

Tyrion smiled his crooked smile, “Quite right. And so what could be more appropriate? The King's Hand's bastard son a squire to the queen's bastard brother? We shall make quite a spectacle!”

“Jon,” Robb said softly, hopefully, “I think The Imp--” he stopped himself, flustered. “I think my lord of Lannister means for you to be able to return home.”

Jon was still all brooding wariness, regarding him uncertainly. “And what reason have I got to trust you and your bloody family?”

“You don't, lad,” Tyrion confessed immediately. “But you were wise enough to ask, so I expect we will get along famously. As for my family, I'd be a fool if I trusted them myself.” He clapped his hands together abruptly. “Ah, well, and look at the time. I really must be going. I'll want your answer _before_ we reach The Wall.” He hesitated long before adding, “Listen well, Jon. The Wall is no kind of life for a bright young man. And from what I have seen, you are a pig-headed, morose, self-important bloody _Stark_ son of a whore – but you are a bright young man. And this way... we shall both be ridiculed, it may be long years, and it may at times be hard work. But I do swear this to you: I will, someday, see that you come home. It will not be as the Lord of Winterfell, it may not even be as a knight. But I will see you get the opportunity to come home.” He coughed. “And now I've said quite enough. Snow, I'll see you on the morrow. Young Lord Stark, my regards. Farewell, boys.” Both Stark and Snow could hear the amusement in his voice when he added, “As you were.”

Tyrion Lannister set off, his stature leading him to struggle absurdly to cross some of the larger brush. Robb Stark and Jon Snow exchanged a long, befuddled look, before Robb managed to crack a tentative smile, though his tone was offended. “Jon, does The Imp mean to _bugger_ you?”

Jon shook his head, slowly. “If his offer was sincere, then no, I think not,” he mumbled, blushing. “Gods, I hope not.”

“Well,” he began, and let it hang for several seconds. “Well,” he started again, with a trace of wickedness in his voice, this time smirking a little as he reached down to pull the wad of fabric covering Jon's front from his brother's hands, “it would seem you have a choice to make, where you felt you had none, before. In the mean time, what are the bloody odds _that's_ going to happen again?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, when Tyrion has a first and possibly last conversation with Robb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the feedback. :) I was feeling a little nervous about posting what I did, since I haven't written in a creative capacity for several years now. You gave me the confidence to continue.

There was much to be done the morning the king's retinue departed Winterfell, but little enough of it that concerned Ned Stark's children. That was a mercy, as it meant it was not terribly difficult, excepting the throbbing of his head and the roiling of his gut, for Tyrion to locate Jon Snow. He found four of the direwolves, Ghost and Grey Wind amongst them, skulking about the entrance to the great hall, and sure enough, the bastard was sitting at one of the smaller tables in the hall with Robb, Arya, and Rickon, each sitting before a bowl of porridge that only Rickon was eating, and him half-heartedly at best. The older three were all forced smiles and small talk. Tyrion feigned interest in a tapestry near the entrance, biding his time for an appropriate time to approach. Abruptly, Arya pushed her bowl away completely and declared loudly, “I hate this! I hate it! I don't want to go! I hate Sansa, too! I should be _here,_ with all of you, waiting for Bran to get better! If I could stay and Bran were awake, mother couldn't send Jon away; we wouldn't let her.”

Rickon burst into tears, blubbering and incoherent, and Robb reached out and took his brother into his lap, hushing him gently. Jon and Robb exchanged a brief, mournful look, as if each were trying to bolster the other's strength. Jon put a hand on Arya's shoulder, telling her thickly, “Arya, your lady mother is _not_ sending me away. I chose to go to the Wall.” Tyrion wondered if that was true – if that was really what he meant to do – at the same time as he felt a measure of relief. He'd come to advise Snow to be discreet until they were away from Winterfell. He did not often lose his wits in his cups, but neglecting to warn the boy the previous evening had been one such incident. By the time he'd gotten Snow to King's Landing, there was not much anyone could do to stop him from keeping the boy around, barring the unlikely possibility that someone might find him important enough to kill. 

Jon continued, “And there's nothing Robb can do about any of this. Robb and I are nearly men grown, now, and you're not so far off from being a grown lady yourself. Father is doing his duty and so must we.”

“It's not forever, Arya,” Robb added quietly, shifting the mostly-pacified Rickon to his other knee.

“Jon will be at the Wall forever,” Arya argued petulantly, pouting. Snow's face didn't move, set into that static, inscrutable mien he seemed to wear so often.

“Arya, that's enough,” Robb told her, not unkindly. “Now go, off to your chambers with you. Septa Mordane's like to have an apoplexy if you haven't packed.”

The pout stayed on Arya's face, but she stood obligingly, looking slightly down at Jon. “You'll come see me before we leave?” she quavered, obviously holding back tears.

Jon managed a smile, and leaned up to ruffle his half-sister's hair and kiss her forehead. “Of course.” Arya bolted abruptly from the hall, and Tyrion heard her stifled sob as she passed. The world was not presently being kind to the Stark children, Tyrion thought, although it was no more than most children faced as they became adults. Tyrion made his way to the table the remaining children were sitting at. Rickon observed him with naked interest, almost seeming to cheer up at the sight of him. Robb and Jon looked at him uncomfortably.

“Good morning, my lord,” Jon said, mostly impassive.

“Good morning, Jon,” Tyrion said courteously. “Lord Stark, I'd wondered if I might have a word. In private.”

Robb could not contain his surprise at having been asked for, but nodded, a little too quickly. “Jon, could you...?” He indicated Rickon with a dip of his head. 

“Of course,” Jon agreed, looking rather confused himself. He stood and took Rickon from Robb's arms, plunking him down on his own side of the table.

“Fear not,” Tyrion said jovially, “I mean to return him in one piece and in short order. Unless he must leave your company to see to something, he should be back in no more than five minutes.”

Robb cast a too-long look at Jon, running his tongue over his teeth in consternation. “I'll be back,” he told his brothers, rising to follow Tyrion, who led him down the hall to the empty library. Tyrion began struggling to close the heavy wooden door and Robb moved to do it for him. They were not in the great library, only a place used for keeping children's toys and tales and educational materials, and it was easy to discern they were alone.

“My lord Tyrion, what would you...?”

“I need you to listen closely and pass along a message,” Tyrion began without preamble, speaking softly and quickly. Robb was left to figure out to whom. “If you are asked why you were seen with me, you will say I took you aside to offer my final condolences on your brother's unfortunate injury, your father having been busy and your mother having been indisposed. You will tell our mutual friend not to speak of our plan until we part ways with your lord father. He would not be pleased, and if your lady mother were to get a hold of the information, she might well try to make him stay just to make him miserable.” Robb opened his mouth, as if he were about to say that that was what he wanted in the first place, and Tyrion cut him off. “You would not want that,” he told Robb seriously. “Not with your father gone and her in grief.”

Robb gave him a hard look. “I wouldn't let her--”

“She would not listen to you,” Tyrion said matter-of-factly. “You are a boy yet, Robb, and you shall effectively be so for two more years. In your father's absence your mother holds the reins in your name, else your father dies or says otherwise. Jon must leave for his own protection. You can choose not to see that as you will, but you should know that one day you may be forced to choose between the two of them.” Robb wore a troubled look at that, and Tyrion could not help asking curiously, “Tell me true. Provided, of course, that you both live, do you suppose it shall be the same, two, three years from now? When you've wed and bred?”

Robb looked troubled for a moment. “I will do my duty to House Stark,” he said at last, reluctantly. “As to the other... I don't expect you to understand. Could I ask you a question, then?”

“So long as the answer will be brief. It would be better if we were not found together.”

Robb swallowed hard, and once more Tyrion had the sudden, unpleasant impression that he was looking on a scared child. “Does... does it disgust you?” he asked in a small voice.

A hard question to answer, that. Tyrion had many theories of his own as to how the brothers had moved from sharing furs as children to doing so in an adult manner, and most of them faulted Catelyn Stark. He could not say he understood how she felt about Jon's existence, but he knew all too well what it felt like to be a child unwelcome in his own home, and it made it hard for him to have much sympathy for her. 

Lord Stark seemed to have done as well by the boy as he dared, with his bollocks clasped in his wife's pretty, pale Tully hand. He had in fact gone above and beyond for Jon, compared to many bastards, seeing to it that he had all the advantages of a highborn upbringing. The education and arms training, the fact the Jon had never gone hungry a day in his life... all these were things that many bastards would never receive. Tyrion had watched on a few days prior as Ned had watched his two eldest sons training at swords, and his face had still glowed with a quiet pride, even after Robb had stumbled and begged Jon's quarter. It was the same look he'd worn when Robb had subsequently bested Jon. Ned Stark loved all his children, but he did not love Jon well enough to keep him from the Wall. Then, the man's own brother wore the black, and Ned was above all a man of honour. He might not have seen it as cruelty to have his bastard son find honour in a way he was otherwise unlikely to.

He very much doubted, even had he been of a size with Jaime, that anything similar would have happened to him. As it happened, that idea did rather disgust him, and his suspicions about his brother and sister left a bad taste in his mouth. But he remembered how desperately he'd needed and drunk in his brother's kindness, and by Jon's age Tyrion had been made of far stronger stuff than the bastard boy. Most of Snow's younger siblings loved him, of a surety, but only the eldest Stark would have been in any position to offer him any real protection.

The fact that what had happened with Robb and Jon had happened required necessarily that each was inclined to like men in the first place, but he knew from long experience that that did not exclude a liking for the fairer sex as well. Tyrion gave not a whit whom a person preferred to share their bed with. But what sort was Robb Stark, and what sort was Jon Snow? Would Robb take some comely young lady to wed and forget about Jon? Would Jon, in the line of Tyrion's service, find some favourite bar wench or whore and charm her into building a simpler life with him in the south? Or would they truly wait for each other; would Robb merely “do his duty to House Stark,” and produce a litter of heirs while Jon would, ostensibly, have chosen not to pass on his bastard's name? 

In truth, Tyrion had a notion that Jon was but a little more capable than his brother, at least with intellectual pursuits, that perhaps he had always striven a little harder to atone for his name. He was, however, of a much more mercurial temper, and hampered by his insistence on dwelling on his bastardy. There had been a Stark in Winterfell for as long as bore remembering, and his name aside, Jon was more a Stark than any of his father's children, save perhaps the little girl. In a world where all things went according to plan – a world which was decidedly not the world they lived in – Tyrion thought the northlands would benefit from Robb's having his brother at his side during his lordship.

But Robb was not a lord yet, only a northern boy who had never seen true winter, watching him with a troubled expression. Finally, Tyrion inquired simply, “Do you love him?” Robb nodded as emphatically as one could while looking so ashamed, biting on his fist. “Then no,” Tyrion answered decisively, “and I don't believe anyone else should be either. I will not be so disingenuous as to tell you they will not be, but as long as your feelings are true, it is none of their concern.”

Robb pulled his hand down from his mouth; he'd left indents where his teeth had been. Almost imperceptibly, he brightened a little. Like as not he'd never thought to have someone to even pose the question to, much less to receive a response in the negative. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “And you're wise. Father will be angry. Uncle Benjen won't be pleased, either. I don't know how you'll manage to contend with that.”

“It's no crime for an unsworn brother to disappear in the night,” Tyrion replied bluntly. “There will be nothing much anyone can say, once I've brought him to King's Landing, but before then, caution is paramount.”

“Jon... he won't like that,” Robb said uncertainly. “He likes Uncle Benjen.”

“You poor boy,” Tyrion sighed, masking the extent of his pity, “as you and your siblings seem to be fast learning, we must all do things we don't like. Now go,” he said abruptly. “Say your farewells to your father and sisters. If I may offer a word of advice, find a moment to bid your brother farewell in private, before you do so in public. I imagine it might be... difficult to stay within the bounds of propriety, knowing he's leaving.”

Robb offered him a disconsolate smile, shaking his head. “Nothing I do beforehand will make it any easier when it's real, m'lord,” he fixed Tyrion with a strange, sad look. “As wise as you seem to be, I'd have thought you'd know that.”

Tyrion's chest tightened uncomfortably at that. If Robb and Jon were truly devoted to one another, he had offered them a slim chance, better than they'd had before, of at least being able to be near one another at some point during the course of a life that would be longer than either of them knew. Even if their strange attachment was only a thing of their youth, he was giving Jon Snow a freedom that Jon had been prepared to throw away without ever really appreciating it. Tyrion reminded himself sternly that there was no such thing as a life without pain; it was folly to try and make it otherwise. They were of the north, Stark men both, and after all, winter was coming.

Tyrion turned on his heel, almost knocking himself over with the ferocity with which he pulled open the door. "Farewell, Lord Stark. You have my best wishes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that. Things will start to involve a little less melodrama and more of Tyrion and Jon snarking on one another next chapter, I promise. :) Although given the fandom, it's clearly not going to be all rainbows and puppy dogs...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the way north, Jon has been holding himself apart from the others in their party. Unexpectedly, he comes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In re-reading the first few chapters for Tyrion and Jon in AGoT, some things became apparent to me. This is definitely more show than book 'verse, mostly because it gave me room to take more liberties with certain things. The second was that I'm not terribly pleased with how I wrote Robb so far, but I'm okay with it, because he was under duress and because by the time he pops back up I'll be dealing with a very different character. The third was that I've half wanted to write something like this since I read the first book - little!Jon (and boy, is he little, at the start of the first book... yes, they're definitely older in this story) and Tyrion have an awesome dynamic. Also, I cannot think of a better term from Joffrey than "vile nephew," so that found its way in here, too.
> 
> And now that you've listened to my rambling, we return to your regularly scheduled fic. As usual, I own exactly nothing and am writing this for fun and practice, not profit.

Mostly, it was bitterly frigid and silent on the road north. Jon Snow proved to be as somber and lachrymose as Tyrion expected, but he also proved to be a measure stronger. Snow ate little and spoke less as they began to head north, but despite Tyrion's watching him for any signs of his emotions getting the better of him, there were none. He generally rode near the head of their small party, and only wound up behind when he was waiting for Ghost to return after an especially long absence. Once he became confident that the direwolf always returned, he no longer even did that. Most days he would manage to shoot some manner of small game. But as much as his emotions were neatly in check, it seemed to be mostly because they were simply not there. His uncle Benjen and Tyrion both occasionally attempted to elicit something near a laugh or smile from him; Jon would only look through them and go through the cursory action of twitching the corners of his mouth. 

He pulled his weight easily, and though he hadn't spoken to Tyrion yet about his plans, he treated him with a certain dutiful, deferential courtesy that Tyrion could see Benjen Stark misliked. It reminded Tyrion that, if and when he arrived in King's Landing with his new protege, there was sure to be some clamour. Jaime would ask him if he'd taken leave of his senses, and his father and sister would be immeasurably more upset than that. If Tyrion allowed it, which he did not mean to, his bastard squire would suffer much torment at his vile nephew's behest. 

Ned Stark would probably demand his son's presence in his chambers, though Tyrion did not have the measure of the man quite well enough to say what he would do. He could not force Jon back to the Wall, if he did not wish to go; he did not have the luxury of disowning his bastard as he might a trueborn child. Even if he could disinherit a bastard, he couldn't do so in response to him pledging allegiance to a Lannister, not with their houses at peace. Tyrion thought he loved the boy too much to send him back to his wife's lacking mercies. The only power he had to control Jon was the ability to manipulate his emotions, and Tyrion thought it might do Jon's confidence some good to _inform_ his lord father of his intentions, to remind Ned Stark that a son whose future you did not adequately see to was not a son you could rule over. He also knew Snow had more love for Ned than Tyrion had ever had for Lord Tywin, perhaps even rightfully so, so it might be he was being unfair, only hoping to live vicariously through Jon. It wouldn't do for Tyrion to get ahead of himself.

About three weeks into their trip, none of this had changed. In truth, Tyrion had begun to grow tired of the boy's reticence. A show of strength was no show of strength at all, when it had become so obvious there was something wrong with the lad. It was not as if Tyrion himself didn't know precisely what, but his stoicism had gone on so long as to seem an even feebler thing than tears would have been. Putting one's best face forward and remaining functional was all well and good, but it would not be long before he would need Jon to be far more than functional, if he were to join him. For all that one's family ties were meant to be cut upon taking the black, when Benjen Stark discovered his nephew had gone missing overnight with “The Imp,” he might well feel the need to mount a cursory force to pursue them. With no one in their party but a boy, a dwarf, and a smattering of his men-at-arms, with Jon the only northerner amongst them, it did not promise to be an easy trip back.

One evening Tyrion was reading before the fire and Benjen was tending the ravens, or whatever it that busied the man when they made camp for the evening. Both of them assumed Jon was lurking some short distance away with his wolf, as was his custom. As it happened, they were wrong. Jon emerged from the darkness, at first no more than a shadow in the blowing snow, then a distinctive figure, tramping heavily over the crunching ground. He sat down heavily and deliberately on the other end of Tyrion's log. “Lannister,” he said by way of greeting, with more warmth in his voice than Tyrion had heard since they left Winterfell.

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “Why, Jon,” he greeted cheerfully. “Come to join me of your own accord, have you? What a pleasant surprise.”

Jon's half-smile was as sincere as the warmth in his voice had been. “I suppose it must be, so long as you've any fondness for my company.”

“Compared to ravens, brigands and rapers, and your uncle?” Tyrion asked wryly. Not wanting to put Jon off again, he added, “I've nothing against the man, but I think he'd as soon leave me for the Others as have me along. You'll be the most pleasant company I've had in nearly a month.”

The corners of Jon's mouth quirked. “You poor bastard,” he teased.

Tyrion stared at him for all of a second, too surprised by his sudden humour to process the joke. Then it clicked, and Tyrion threw his head back and let out a guffaw. Once he'd recovered himself, he took a deep breath and silently offered Jon his wineskin. Jon drank long and deep before returning it. “So,” Tyrion started cautiously. “Wherever have you been, Jon?”

Jon's mouth tightened a little and he blew a long, hard breath out of his nose, but he didn't look quite upset. “Right here, my lord.”

Tyrion shook his head, smirking. “You'll have to do better than that, Lord Snow! You've hardly spoken the whole journey. Did you know I was considering striking you, just to see if you'd react?”

That earned him a bout of hysterical titters from Jon. Tyrion could see where it might have been slightly amusing, but Jon was utterly undone, laughing so hard he'd run out of breath and gone silent, face flushed and mucus and tears running down his face, catching in the unruly growth of gold and red flecked black beard he'd developed over the course of their travel. He managed to stop once and drew several quick, shallow breaths, before proceeding to drop his elbows to his knees and his hands to his face and collapse all over again, shoulders shaking.

Tyrion looked at him uneasily. “Have you gone mad?”

Jon managed to stop laughing and look up at him, though his chest was still shaking slightly and he was breathing hard, his jaw closed too firmly. He pressed a fist hard to his lips and drew a long, slow breath before he was able to speak. “No, no, I swear. It's only...”

“You're drunk,” Tyrion realized abruptly. “By the Gods, Jon, I'd have gotten you drunk two weeks ago if I'd known that was all you needed.”

“No,” Jon insisted, managing to rein in his expression and look Tyrion calmly in the eyes. Then he hiccuped, and admitted, “Maybe. A little. But I'm drunk because I'm better, not better because I'm drunk, and that's not why I was laughing,” he insisted, the hint of a pout playing at his lips, like a small child wanting to be taken seriously.

“Very well,” Tyrion allowed. “And why, pray tell, were you laughing?”

“It's only...” Jon rubbed his face briskly and licked his lips before continuing, “It's truly not that funny, it's only that Robb must have told me that very thing a hundred times, since we were ten or twelve. I'd be upset, with him or with Theon or...” The hint of a shadow crossed his face there, but he shrugged it off. “I'd be upset, and I suppose I'd become withdrawn, for a while, and...” Tyrion wondered if his behaviour was the sort all Starks considered merely “withdrawn,” and thanked the Gods that if so, he'd never had much cause to be in their company. Jon chuckled again, “And he, or Arya, or one of the little ones would bring me around. And I suppose I'd come back to normal, and he'd always tell me he'd been thinking about hitting me, just to get a reaction. He did, a few times. As out of sorts as I was, I often tried to kill him when he did that. But he was always stronger than me, and I was always faster, and speed's not much of an advantage when you're seeing red. Only he never meant to hurt me, and when you're fully restrained and you've done all the cursing you can do, there's nothing left to do but laugh or cry.”

“And which,” Tyrion inquired, “did you choose?”

“Laughter, mostly,” Jon replied mildly. “Tears, once or twice, when we were younger, before... Well, before. 'Are we done here, Snow?' he'd ask me, and I never had it in me to be upset any more once...”

“Once you'd thawed out your system in the first place?” Tyrion finished for him. “I don't know how you behaved before, Jon, but you were not 'withdrawn' just now. You were thoroughly disappeared for more than a fortnight.”

“Father once told me many of the Starks – of those with Stark blood,” Jon corrected himself reflexively, “were like that. Robb and Sansa had too much Tully in them for it to ever come out much, and Arya had too much fire of her own. Rickon was too small to know who he took after for sure, though he was always a placid little thing as a babe. Bran, though... Bran could disappear for days at a stretch, when he was in the right mood. I don't know if it was coldness, exactly, but sometimes he just... wasn't there.” 

Jon's eyes were fixed on the fire, but they were glazed. He'd gone somewhere else, again, but it wasn't the same desolate place he'd been. He'd gone back to a life he no longer had amongst a family that had been splintered. All that was left for him at Winterfell were the two people who had been the best and worst parts of his life, a boy who Tyrion privately thought might never wake, and his youngest brother, so small he'd forget who Jon was in a year. Tyrion must have predicted his train of thought well enough, because when he spoke again, it was to say, “You know, even if I'd stayed... It wouldn't have been home any more. Not like it used to be. Robb's there, so maybe we could have done something new, we might have eventually made it feel like home again. But we'll never make it the same place again. Arya and Sansa will be married, father will be gone gods know how long, and Rickon will never really know what it was like. How happy we all were. She was never fond of me, but Winterfell's truly not the same place with Lady Stark in mourning. It just seemed like things would be the same forever, and then they weren't.”

Tyrion did feel for him, but indulging the boy too much would do him no favours. For all the difficulties Jon had overcome, he had grown up more privileged than he would probably ever really appreciate. “You had sixteen years, Jon. You got to grow to be nearly a man, all in days of spring or summer, and mostly amongst people who loved you. Your youngest brother will never have that to the extent you did. You got an education and never had to worry about where the food on your plate was coming from. As these things go, I believe you should be quite pleased with your life so far. I understand that you miss it. Even if you return to serve Robb someday, you will always miss it. And so shall he, I imagine. You'll never have your childhood again, and so you must focus on building yourself the best adulthood you can.”

Jon eyed him with displeasure, not liking the first part of what he'd said, but was wise enough to hold his tongue. The wind picked up as thought he'd bidden it to, blowing sharp, sparkling crystals at their faces. They both shivered a little as the wind flayed the warmth built up in their clothing away. The wind roared, loud enough to cover any sound more than a few feet away and Jon leaned in towards Tyrion, speaking just loudly enough to be heard. “I'm coming with you,” he declared, as softly as he could while being heard.

“I'm pleased to hear that,” Tyrion replied sincerely, at the same time he was wondering what he'd managed to get himself into. This was a boy to be taken firmly in hand, for all his talents. To say nothing of the reception that would await them in the city. 

_Right then,_ Tyrion thought, _you've saved the boy, now what to do with him?_ There would be things to arrange – Jon would need a new master at arms(Tyrion not being of much use with such things himself), a tutor(which would not be necessary, were the boy inclined to read independently), and instruction in a courtly subtlety he presently lacked almost completely. Those lessons would come from Tyrion himself, and they would be the most crucial of anything he had yet to learn. As he was now, the city would swallow Jon whole, and be all the less merciful for his illegitimate blood. Tyrion meant to let that happen, within certain bounds. Jon was nothing if not hard-headed, the sort who would need a few humiliations in order for a lesson to absorb. Nothing that would lose him his tongue or his head, and hopefully nothing that would make him any serious enemies, but enough that he would learn his place in the world and how to work from within it. Tyrion wanted for their relationship to be pleasant and equitable, but Jon must learn to take orders and execute them without betraying his emotions. This young Lord Snow facade would not do for a bastard at court. He must also learn which orders were to be obeyed, and which were to be altered.

There was much to be done.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion has had quite enough of some of Jon's more difficult qualities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be going back and doing some minor editing... For instance, apparently it's "the Wall," rather than "The Wall." Whether I did this because my boyfriend has been making me listen to Pink Floyd for six years or because I assumed it was grammatically correct, I'm not sure, but it would appear that it's wrong.

Life on the Wall was not necessarily either short or brutal, but it was damnably cold and terribly lonely. For the first time, Tyrion felt a measure of enmity towards Ned Stark. He had been to the Wall, seen its bleak desolation, and had still been willing to let his son swear his life away. Had Jon been older, this might not have bother Tyrion so much, but the boy was a month shy of his sixteenth nameday. Boys were made to become men younger than that, to be sure, but facing death in battle and then being able to find strong drink and a lover was not the same thing as pledging a lifetime of drudgery. Taking the black had been a notion of Jon's own conception, that was true, but he had experienced few of a boy's rites of passage. He had been in love and he had taken a lover. These he had done in an unorthodox manner, but at least he had done them. He had never known winter or what it was to face violent death – both things they had in abundance at the Wall, at least for the rangers. Given the nature of his romantic attachment and his age, he had likely never considered that he might one day desire to hold a child of his own, or even a nephew. Perhaps he did not wish to wed, but he was too young to even be sure of that.

Jon was old enough to decide to do just about anything with his life but this. Still, Tyrion made himself temper this thought with the admission that he was not sure if he'd ever consider someone truly prepared to promise himself to such a life forever with no hope of reprieve. It was a greater crime, to let one so young, but it did not seem to him to be a fair proposition for anyone.

The sight of the great, gleaming edifice was breathtaking at first glance. From miles out in the Gift, looking up at it, it seemed to go on forever. Merely looking at the Wall, however, gave no sense of the life the Black Brothers lived. One had to look to the foot of the Wall to see the bigger picture, to take in the crumbling stone structures that clustered around it, the meagre number of black-garbed men milling about their dying settlement. Such men of honour as there were remaining to the Night's Watch were mostly venerable, though the life they had led meant they were still fit and vigorous. The new recruits could not have been more different from their superiors, a lean, furtive lot of men, all condemned for some crime or another. For all he was a bastard, Jon Snow would have been one of the highest standing men to voluntarily consign himself to the Night's Watch in more than a decade.

What troubled Tyrion about that was that Jon seemed to know it. For all his awareness and lamenting of his position at Winterfell, their company at the Wall had brought out an unpleasant, self-righteous arrogance in the boy. Under their continued guise that Jon meant to swear his vows, he had been set to training with the other new recruits, and he fought as though it were still Robb or Theon Greyjoy opposite him. At Winterfell, both of his most frequent opponents were larger than he had been, well trained, and well fed. With Robb, he'd been close enough to smile when he helped his brother to his feet and help tend his wounds, to apologize profusely for anything slightly serious, and with Greyjoy there was a mutual dislike that spurred both boys to fight as though their lives truly did depend on it, with no courtesies necessary or offered by either of them. Even the biggest of Jon's would-be fellow recruits was still lanky from a lifetime of too little food, and even the deftest of them could not hold a candle to the adroitness that had been beaten into Jon over long years of practice.

Jon seemed to believe that these were victories fairly earned. After one bout, when Jon had landed three blows that would have been deadly before disarming his opponent and slamming him face first to the ground, Tyrion had asked him why he felt it necessary to continue when he'd clearly won. Jon had only shrugged, just the barest lackadaisical movement of his shoulders, and said, “Ser Alliser hadn't said to stop. Besides, he should have moved faster.” As though it were that simple; as though the other boy had had the luxury of such things being second nature. And yet Jon clashed with Thorne, as well, visibly chafing at his orders, quick to suggest they were being taught to do something incorrectly.

“Thorne is letting you make enemies,” Tyrion had replied baldly, “because he doesn't like you. Nor have you given him much bloody reason to.” Privately Tyrion could not fault Jon for thinking Alliser Thorne was a brutal masochist of no particular talent, better suited to a headsman than a master at arms, but he could certainly see how foolish it was to make an enemy of such a man.

Tyrion had named Jon “Lord Snow” as a jest, once or twice in the past; it was more of a reference to his speech and the way he carried himself than anything cruel. Ser Alliser had begun spitting it at him with venom. When Jon failed to contain the fact that the moniker rankled, so too did the other recruits. The sparring sessions became more violent, and Thorne was even slower to call them to a stop. Jon did not seem to have his wits about him enough to realize he was being set up, even after Tyrion's warning, and Tyrion was becoming rather wroth with him. The day Jon broke one boy's nose and did his best to break another's wrist was the day Tyrion had seen quite enough – his temper would be Tyrion's problem soon enough, and the whole thing had gone far beyond the pale.

From his perch on an overlooking walkway, Tyrion bellowed, “Jon Snow!”

Jon turned towards him, still sweating and breathing hard, and cocked both eyebrows, his mouth hanging slightly slack.

“Yes, Snow, you,” Tyrion continued, almost in a rage. “Or do you see any other northern bastards about?!” The other young men amongst the recruits snickered, but for once Jon didn't look angry, the confusion in his expression deepening. “I'd like a word with you in my chambers. Now.”

Tyrion stalked off towards the tower he'd taken as his own with Jon in tow. Ser Alliser Thorne did not protest, perhaps because he enjoyed the idea of Jon being thoroughly castigated by the dwarf. Perhaps he thought it would be all the more humiliating for Tyrion's small stature. Tyrion did not speak to him as he led him across the yard, nor did he look to see if Jon was following. That Jon might be foolish enough to disregard him in this did not even occur to him. When they made it to the structure in which Tyrion had made his temporary home, Jon closed the door behind them delicately. He looked quite cowed – he knew he'd gotten himself in trouble, somehow – but he also looked as though he might not know exactly what he had done wrong.

Tyrion turned on him, seething. “Tell me, Snow, are you a complete fucking fool? The intelligence I thought I saw in you before, where was that coming from?”

Jon faltered. “Lord Tyrion, I... I...”

“There's nothing you can say in your defence,” Tyrion interrupted him. “And if you have a whit of sense, you will not try! What did I tell you, not three days ago?” He was met with a resounding silence. Tyrion blew out a frustrated breath, then growled, “Ser Alliser means to let you dig your own grave. Please explain, exactly what do you think your life would be like here, if you make your commanders and your brothers despise you?”

Jon set his mouth in a firm line. “They don't like me because I'm better than they are,” he mumbled obstinately.

“They don't like you because you are a pompous, ill-tempered little prick who _thinks_ he is better than they are,” Tyrion shouted, wishing he was tall enough to shake the boy. “You have not known a single day of true physical difficulty in all your years! That boy whose wrist you tried to break today, do you even know his name? Do you know why he's here?”

“It's Pypar,” Jon replied quietly, caught on a dangerous precipice between anger and shame. “And no, I hadn't asked him.”

“Oh, it's quite a funny story, really,” Tyrion told him, his voice deceptively mild. “Yes, it's not quite so different from the spoilt bastard of a highborn lord running away from home to bemoan his lot in life. You see, Pyp was caught stealing a wheel of cheese from a merchant at the market. His sister hadn't eaten in three days. They told him he could lose the very hand you tried to take from him or come to the Wall. And so here he is.”

“I...”

“The one whose nose you broke. Do you know his name?”

“Grenn,” Jon said softly, the larger part of the indignation draining from him. He looked slightly pale.

“His father left him at the door of a farmhouse when he was three days old. The crofters that took him in beat him and half starved him for seventeen years,” Tyrion paused to watch this next blow sink in. Jon was flexing the fingers of his sword hand idly, transferring his discomfort into quick, twitching movement. “He took one of their horses when he ran away and was taken in for theft. Once again, he had a choice: both hands, or the Wall.”

Jon looked queasy. He dropped his practice sword to the ground and sunk heavily back onto his heels, threading his fingers through the hair at his temples. “I didn't know...”

“You didn't ask,” Tyrion corrected, “because you did not care. I do not mean to belittle what struggles you've faced, Jon,” he said more gently. “But surely you can see--”

“What a miserable bastard I've been,” Jon finished to Tyrion's pleasure, sounding distraught. “Gods, I truly had no idea.”

“You may yet make amends for that. You will humbly beg their pardons, and you will spend your remaining days here trying to help them learn. It is not likely they will forgive you, at first,” Tyrion warned him. “You will take such insults and japes as they level at you with good grace. And yes, Snow, I mean all of this as an order. Were this King's Landing, someone would have already stilled your impudent tongue for you, possibly for good. There is an extent to which your prickly temper is part of why I find myself fond of you – but it can also be one of your more loathsome qualities, and certainly one of your more dangerous ones.”

Jon pushed his feet out from under him, sitting down on the cold stone floor with a tinkle from his mail. He did not look as if he knew what to say. He chewed on his lip as his eyes darted back and forth between Tyrion and the ground. “Yes, my lord,” he said at last, hanging his head.

“That is not all,” Tyrion continued sternly. “It has not escaped my notice that Ser Alliser Thorne is a cruel, bumbling aurochs of a man. You will notice, however, that I have not made an enemy of him. I may yet, as we're leaving soon, the man grates on my nerves more by the day, and I have befriended the Old Bear. But _I_ am in a much better position here than you, and I have that liberty. You must choose your enemies with great caution, Jon, or you may lose your head in the city. You will be asked to do things that you don't like, and be expected to do them silently. I promise you I shall always be open to hearing your perspective on things, but I do not promise you will change my mind. If I do not, you will have to accept that it is either for your protection or mine own. Catelyn Stark is but one of the people in the world who will want to hurt you for being a bastard, the only difference is is that the others who do it will be motivated by nothing more than simple cruelty – unless they are trying to goad you into doing something foolish, as Ser Alliser was. There is nothing you can do to perturb such animals more than let their nonsense roll off your back.”

Jon did not accept that so easily. “But it's not only how he speaks to me--”

“I know. I am aware that the man loathes you and should like nothing better than to see you suffer or fail. I am aware that there are a half a dozen insidious little things he's done to that end,” Tyrion admitted without argument. “And unlike your dear friends Grenn and Pypar, Ser Alliser Thorne does in fact hate you for being a better man than he is. He sees a promise in you no one, not even he himself, ever saw in him. So prove him right – prove me right – and be a better man than him.”

Jon tilted his head back to look up at him – for once, for maybe the first time ever – and nodded reluctantly, giving Tyrion a small, tight smile. “It won't be nearly as satisfying as clocking the bastard,” he said, but he did not appear to have any real objection.

Tyrion smiled back. “Over time, I think you may find that the non-violent route is infinitely more satisfying than the violent solution could ever be. You see, Jon, the beauty of the non-violent solution is that you still win, but more often than not you cannot be implicated.”

“I don't think I'd mind being implicated in Thorne getting what's coming to him,” Jon said idly, drumming his fingers across his knee.. “But I suppose I see your point.”

“Have you learned to play nicely?” Tyrion asked facetiously, just to try Jon's temper. Jon's brow knit almost imperceptibly, but he nodded with good grace. “And do you understand why you must? Not just here, but henceforth?”

Jon heaved a great sigh, but his voice was all controlled courtesy when he responded, “Yes, my lord.”

“Very well,” Tyrion said, resisting the half-proud and half-teasing urge to pat the boy's head. “Now, on your feet. You shall go apologize to Ser Alliser.”

Jon rose and left the tower with Tyrion not far behind him, but they never made it back to Alliser Thorne. They'd gone no more than twenty or thirty feet when Jeor Mormont approached them, a grave look on his grizzled face. “There's been a raven, Tyrion,” he announced somberly. “For your eyes only. Maester Aemon is waiting in the rookery.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan is formed, and Jon begs aid for a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeep. Sorry this took so long. My computer decided to start screwing me around yet again, and then I was sick. Also I spent a long time working out the logistics of where I want this to go in the long run, which was fairly sticky work. The next chapter is coming along much more smoothly, though, so hopefully there won't be any more nearly month long delays.

Tyrion's head swam and his breakfast began to sit poorly in his stomach as he read the message. "Is there any wine?" he croaked at Maester Aemon. The hunching little blind man told him that it was his custom to keep cups and a flagon at the desk. Between a blind man and a dwarf who couldn't reach the table on his own, it did not promise to be a simple task. Although Aemon could probably find the desk by memory, it didn't seem right to request that such a wizened man serve him. Tyrion pulled a chair over to the desk with as much dignity as he could muster and scaled it, able to reach the wine and cups with no great difficulty when he stood on the chair. He poured one cup, drained it noisily, and then poured another to sit down with. The wine burned in his belly and he began to feel more stable almost immediately. Maester Aemon remained silent, circumspect, but Tyrion could feel his expectant silence hanging over them.

The message he'd received had, ostensibly, come from Robb Stark. It wasn't closed with the Starks' seal, for which Tyrion was devoutly grateful. Jon should be able to tell his brother's hand, but the Old Bear would not have missed the sigil of the Lord Protector of the North on any incoming messages. It seemed there had been an attempt made on young Brandon Stark's life - one which Tyrion himself was being accused of by Catelyn Stark. Petyr Baelish had told her the knife she'd recovered from the assassin had belonged to Tyrion. Baelish would pay for that, once Tyrion discovered what the man was playing at. As yet, Tyrion was too bemused to feel vengeful.

The good news was that Bran had awoken, and that Tyrion's supposed role in the attempt on his life was not common knowledge. The boy would likely never walk again, but the mere fact of his survival should serve to ameliorate his older brothers' tempers. Tyrion harboured no illusions that Jon would not slay him on the spot, whatever would happen to him afterwards and their plans be damned, if he believed Tyrion was behind the attack on his younger brother.

Robb did not believe him guilty, Tyrion thought. He'd closed his missive with a plea for Tyrion to deny the charges; he'd told him to tell Jon. His brother's belief would be good enough, he said. He'd even pointed out that Tyrion had been at the Wall, which did not exclude Tyrion having made arrangements prior to his departure from Winterfell... but why, then, would he have taken Jon with him? For all that, his conflicted emotions were clear – Robb did not go so far as to threaten Tyrion himself, but expressed his conviction that he would take the man who'd ordered the killing's head.

Tyrion wanted to speak with Bran, but Jon's presence was a complication. He could hardly return to Winterfell with the boy in tow – it would raise too many questions. Disguising him would not be an option, either. Whether he made Jon blonde or bald or attired him in beggar's garb, there was far too great a risk that someone would recognize him in the place where he'd grown up. He almost wondered if it mattered. Would anyone at Winterfell other than Robb or Bran even care what their lord's bastard meant to make of himself? Perhaps not, but that did not preclude the probability that it would be mentioned in passing to someone who would care. It certainly did not preclude the Starks' maester or Theon Greyjoy sensing something amiss. Tyrion thought that if he could get Jon to the local brothel unnoticed, he could pay for the whores' silence. It was the best idea he'd had so far.

It would take almost another week to send word to Winterfell and wait for a response from Robb. If he had Jon write the message for him and frame it as a personal letter to his brother, the odds were good that no one else would be interested in it before it could be received. The problem was that that week might be time they did not have, if they were to somehow meet with Robb. Tyrion was sure that there was nothing Lady Stark would enjoy more than being able to put a Lannister and her husband's bastard in fetters. If Robb proved to have more mettle than Tyrion thought then he might manage to see them set free, but even that was far from ideal. Tyrion had gotten this far in his life without being clapped in chains and he meant to keep it that way. It was a point in Robb's favour that he had been wise enough to send a private message. Tyrion's initial assessment of Jon hadn't been perfect. He'd proven to be a better person than Tyrion had thought in some ways and a worse one in others. Still, Tyrion would rather underestimate Robb than bet his life on his impressions.

Whatever was decided, he could make no further plans until he'd spoken to Jon. It was not a conversation he looked forward to, but it was necessary. To delay doing so would only make him look guilty. Tyrion drained the dregs of his cup of wine and stood, clearing his throat. “I thank you, maester,” he said courteously, trying to keep his voice from betraying his emotions. The wine in his belly helped. “But I fear I must leave to seek Jon Snow. It would seem his younger brother's woken up, against all odds. He deserves to know.”

Maester Aemon didn't answer him, and as he left the room, Tyrion had the uncomfortable, ridiculous sensation that the blind man's eyes were boring into his back.

* * *

Jon had been waiting anxiously outside the rookery. Ghost bounded up to Tyrion and butted his furry head into Tyrion's stomach expectantly, and Tyrion absent-mindedly scratched behind the animal's ear. Tyrion supposed they oughtn't to have been there, but he didn't have it in him to reprimand the boy. The three of them returned to his chambers in silence. Tyrion pressed a cup of wine into Jon's hand when they got there, thinking of his own reaction to the news, but Jon only looked at it suspiciously for a few seconds before setting it down on the table. Tyrion began drinking it himself.

Ghost settled lazily before the hearth, crossing his paws and looking at Tyrion with hooded eyes. Jon, evincing no such subtlety, stared him down hard. “What are you not telling me?” he wanted to know.

“Both good things and bad ones,” Tyrion answered, not sure if he was dithering or only trying to frame what he had to say as best he could. “The message was from your brother. Bran's woken up.”

Jon laughed. He allowed himself a moment to smile. “That's wonderful,” he said with relief. Then his face closed off again. “And the rest of it?”

“Read this,” Tyrion said shortly, handing him the letter. “I see no need to upset you, if this isn't your brother's writing.”

Jon's lips moved faintly as his eyes scanned the page. When he didn't say anything, Tyrion assumed that the letter was in fact from Robb. A few moments later, Jon's face went pallid and drawn. His eyes moved more quickly over the rest of the page, and he tossed the parchment unceremoniously to the bed once he'd finished reading it. Without looking at Tyrion, he went back to the table and poured himself a cup of wine. Had things been different Tyrion would have had to laugh. As it was, he found himself backing away from the boy. Jon drained the cup, slammed it down, and stalked across the room.

“Tell me you didn't do it,” Jon pleaded, looking ill. “You have to tell me you didn't do it or I'll have to... I'll...”

“You'll have to kill me where I stand?” Tyrion suggested. He raised his hands in a mollifying gesture. “Nor would I blame you. But think, Jon. I didn't have to tell you. I _could_ have left you here without ever saying a word.”

Jon fixed him with a stony glare. “Bugger your deductions,” he growled. “I want to hear you say you didn't do it.”

It was a reasonable request, really, and one he could grant easily – but Tyrion could not help feeling queerly hurt. Surely Jon thought better of him than to think he'd order a broken child's murder. But that child was Jon's brother, and so Tyrion supposed he'd have had to ask, in Jon's position. He fixed his mismatched eyes on Jon's, and declared very slowly, “I did not order Bran's murder. I swear it by your Old Gods and my new.”

“You could still be lying,” Jon said stubbornly, but some of the tension drained out of his shoulders and he bowed his head, shamefaced. “Thank you,” he muttered, “that was all I needed to hear. I'm here, and unless you were planning something a lot more... No. You still couldn't have contrived to find me in the godswood.” He sighed. “Robb didn't believe it either, or he'd never have sent that message.”

Despite his general agreement with Jon's feelings on the matter, Tyrion pointed out,“He knew it would be the only way to get something approaching a private message to you.”

Jon shook his head. “No,” he insisted. “Robb might have wanted me to know, but if he'd really believed it he'd have been smarter than that. He'd have wanted you dead, not to get the news when you could take the black in a heartbeat.”

“After which _you'd_ have killed me, eventually,” Tyrion said plainly. “Northmen are not known for their forgiving nature. Besides, I fail to see how this conversation is of any benefit to either of us. We must act. We must think, first, but we must act swiftly. I should like to return to Winterfell and speak to your brothers, but that presents its own set of problems. We certainly can't go if Lady Stark has returned, and I'm not sure it would be wise for you to be seen there. You'll be recognized, make no mistake.”

Jon frowned, rubbing his forehead. “Would that... would it truly be the worst thing that could happen? Surely no one thinks I'm that significant. My father won't be pleased but by the time he gets a raven he's hardly going to send someone out in pursuit. Robb won't say anything, and poor Bran couldn't get far enough from bed to do it even if he wanted to. Theon will ask questions, but he'll find the whole thing too funny to care, I'd bet. The smallfolk will gossip, but what of it? I'm sick of hiding and I'm starting to wonder what we're even doing it for. Uncle Benjen's gone north of the Wall, and no one else here is going to try and stop me if I tell them I'm leaving to look into an attack on my brother.”

Tyrion thought about it. It would certainly be the direct approach. It would be the most uncomplicated, at least at first. It would be easier than hiding Jon in a brothel somewhere outside of Winterfell. You could pay whores well for their silence, but the north was not King's Landing, where courtesans knew the true value of discretion. It would be a gamble, to be sure, and one that would only serve to make them look guilty if they were discovered.

Caution and secrecy would count for nothing if Robb were to insist on seeing Jon, which seemed likely. What credibility Tyrion had in the young man's eyes was dependent on Jon's believing him. To say nothing of the fact that fifteen year old boys were not known for prudence when presented with the opportunity to spend time with someone they had loved and thought lost to them. Tyrion thought Jon would abide by his decision despite how he felt about it. Robb, on the other hand, was more used to getting what he wanted, and now he was the de facto lord of Winterfell, besides. There was an element of haughty entitlement present in the character of most young lords in Tyrion's experience, even those who grew to be strong and just. Easier to bring a bastard son to a castle without ceremony than to sneak an heir to a pleasure house. 

Easier, perhaps, to simply admit what they were doing. There was nothing to stop them anyway. Tyrion should have approached Lord Eddard about taking Jon; it was what courtesy dictated... but to Tyrion's mind, Ned Stark had given up any right to having a say in his son's future the day he agreed to let him take the black. If Ned was so glad to rid himself of the problem of his bastard's future, well and so, Tyrion had done just that for him. Tyrion's own lord father did not pay his exploits enough mind to care much about Jon. Tywin would certainly seize the opportunity to berate him, when Tyrion was in close enough proximity for him to do so, but he wouldn't care enough to actively seek them out. Like as not he'd speak as though Jon were some manner of half-trained domestic animal; he would tell Tyrion that he and he alone would be responsible for Jon's training and upkeep. That suited Tyrion well enough. Tyrion did not want for coin, and the last thing he wanted was for his father to get his claws into his squire.

Tyrion didn't overtly acquiesce to Jon's suggestion. Instead he continued to their next conundrum. “Even if we take that course... There will be nothing we can do, if Lady Stark has returned to Winterfell.”

Jon gave him a quizzical look. “And how are we to know if she's done that? There are villages, but there's nowhere to send or receive ravens between here and Winterfell.”

“We must ask Robb to meet us at the tavern in winter town a month hence,” Tyrion replied slowly. “That is, we do so the morning we leave. You shall write it and frame it as a personal missive. If we're to abandon secrecy, I should not face any difficulty in getting the maester to send a raven. We may have to wait there awhile, but it will give us leave to travel a little more slowly than we did on the way here, if need be. If his mother does return, he won't be able to get there every day to look for us. I rather doubt he has the time to do so even now.”

A shadow of apprehension came across Jon's face. “When would we leave?” he asked softly. 

Tyrion sensed something lurking underneath the inquiry that he mistrusted. “Why do you ask?” he countered.

“Do you remember...” Jon paused, steeling himself. “Are you familiar with the Tarly boy? I've been taking my meals with him.” 

“The Tarly boy?” Tyrion repeated with surprised interest. He thought for a moment. “The inept, rotund one, am I right? 'Ser Piggy,' to hear Alliser Thorne call him?”

“He's not so inept as all that,” Jon mumbled defensively. “He's smarter than any of the rest of us will ever be. And that wretched porridge should do away with his belly, in time. There's... something I should have told you, when you were upset with me earlier.”

“Please,” Tyrion began in vexation, only half-joking, “I hope you don't mean to tell me you've taken the fat boy to...”

“No!” Jon interjected, flushing bright red. He screwed up his face. “Nothing of the sort! Do you think I'm that bloody fickle?” He sounded so offended that Tyrion could not help feeling a little embarrassed for having asked. Jon sighed, “I didn't make all my enemies being a prick, you know. You stayed in bed late one day; you'd been up half the night with Lord Commander Mormont.” Tyrion gestured for him to continue. “Sam arrived that evening and was sent to the training yard that morning. Perhaps I seized on having weaker opponents, and I know I'd no excuse for it... But what the others were doing to Sam was beyond even that. He wasn't even trying to fight back! He fell down and Ser Alliser set Grenn to beating him until he stood to fight back,” Jon laughed without humour. 

Suddenly, Tyrion thought he knew where Jon's story was going, and interrupted, “And you...”

“And I defended him, yes,” Jon agreed bitterly. “They were set on us four to two, and Sam hardly counts. I've been defending him ever since. Thorne implied... Well, Thorne implied what you just meant to, only he'd no reason at all to suspect it was even a possibility. I'll not defend myself, you've made it clear I'm not to, but that was the day they really began trying to get to me.”

Tyrion found himself a little taken aback. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Jon shrugged grudgingly. “You made it rather clear I wasn't meant to,” he repeated curtly. And here was another of those teaching moments. Even with this mitigating information, Jon had deserved the lecture he'd gotten, but he hadn't deserved for it to be so harshly delivered. The boy had only been doing as he'd been instructed by not defending himself, but he should have done, orders or no. Tyrion hadn't given Jon nearly enough credit, and as angry as Tyrion had been with him, he was pleased to discover it.

Tyrion chewed on his lip for a moment before saying, “Jon. I understand you meant well, and I know this will be frustrating to hear, but this is the sort of thing I _must_ know, no matter what I say. I could have intervened, or at least spared you some of my gall.”

Jon looked at him with hesitant interest. “Could you still?”

“Could I still what?” Tyrion asked, confused.

“Intervene,” Jon explained hopefully. “My batch of recruits are to take their vows at the end of this week. Sam's not amongst them. He's as ready to serve as a steward as he'll ever be, and I don't know what will happen to him, when...”

Tyrion laughed ruefully. “Jon, really, do you mean to shame me? Make no mistake, you're still to be held responsible for your arrogance, but... Seven _hells,_ lad, don't hold your tongue when it means letting me commit such folly. I'd no idea this whole thing had come about of a kindness on your part.”

Jon shook his head. “Kindness is too strong a word, I think. I only did what my father would have wanted me to. Sam needs to harden himself, but that wasn't the way to go about it.”

Tyrion waved his protest away, not wanting to waste his breath distinguishing Stark honour from what most men considered something rather more. That was an argument for another day, and one he privately feared he might not ever win. “And you're sure this... this Sam boy is fit to serve?”

Jon nodded firmly. “He's literate, which if you count me makes him only one of three. And he's the only one with any head for sums at all. I was taught, of course, and I can do it if I must, but not like Sam. He's been qualified to be a steward since he got here. Lord Commander Mormont listens to Thorne too well sometimes, I'm afraid.”

“It may be true, but it's not your place to say,” Tyrion said crisply. “But I shall see what I can do about your friend. Mormont told me only yesterday they'd more of a need for sharp minds than sharp swords; let us see if he meant it.”

Jon inclined his head. “Thank you,” he said graciously. “I hate to leave him, but I've got my true brothers to think of, and what promises I've made you. And it seems you might genuinely need me, now.”

Tyrion watched him mutely for a long moment before lowering his eyes. “I may just,” he murmured, half to himself. “We'll leave in two days, Jon. I'll speak to Mormont about your friend and smooth your intentions over with him, but you'll have to beg your own leave, afterwards. A courtesy, really; you're still your own man. I mean to tell him I've hired you as help for my journey, so as to stand testament to my innocence. Leave him the possibility that you mean to return. He'll be disappointed to lose you, I think. He spoke of you often.”

Jon's expression wavered, showing something like regret for a moment before he closed his face off to an inscrutable mask. “I'll beg his pardon,” he agreed quietly. “Things aren't as I thought they'd be here, but they do need men, and it was my choice to come. I know you don't think it was--”

Tyrion patted the back of his hand, not to be patronizing but because he couldn't reach Jon's shoulder. “The Wall will be here if you ever change your mind, Jon. But I firmly believe that at your age you should have the chance to do so.”

Jon didn't answer him for a long time. He walked to the hearth, knelt beside Ghost, and wove his hand into the direwolf's scruff. Ghost whined and Jon pressed his face deep between the animal's ears, his shoulders heaving with a sigh. When he pulled away, he finally looked back to Tyrion and said, “I don't think I even know what I want any more. But it seems my responsibilities lie with you for the time being, so I'll start there.”

Tyrion smiled at him. “It will more than do for now,” he agreed. “You may need to think about where you wish to be a year from now – even five years from now – but at five-and-ten you shouldn't have to think about where you'll be twenty years from now.”

Jon managed to smile back. “Six-and-ten, my lord,” he corrected, a little wryly. “It was... my name day was four days ago.”

Startled, Tyrion almost asked why Jon hadn't told him, before the obvious and unsettling answer came to mind. _He hadn't expected anyone to care._ Surely it hadn't been such at Winterfell. Surely not, and yet Jon was inured enough to being ignored that he hadn't thought to call it to anyone's attention, when his father or one of his siblings wasn't around to notice. Even if Lord Tywin failed to make note of it himself, Tyrion's father had always given his nursemaid some coin for a gift and Jaime had always made a fuss of him. Even amongst strangers, it would never have occurred to Tyrion not to tell _someone._

“Well,” Tyrion said briskly, waddling over to clap the kneeling boy on the back, “I shall have to buy you a drink or seven, when we get to somewhere with the proper facilities! In the meantime: you, my friend, still have some bowing and scraping before Ser Alliser Thorne in your future. I had not forgotten. I must go see the Old Bear. I'll look for you at supper.”

Jon rose, scowling a little, but there was still a hint of pleasure in his face and softness in his eyes when he asked, “By your leave, then?”

Tyrion shooed him. “Yes, of course. Off with you, now. See Thorne and Grenn and Pypar,” he instructed, then laughed a little as he teased, “and then go do whatever it is you do with the Tarly boy.”

Jon opened the door and turned to look down at him, mirth wrinkling the corners of his eyes. “Please, shut up,” he groused, so warmly that Tyrion couldn't think of reprimanding him for it. Ghost slipped through the door ahead of him before he added, “I'll see you at supper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: That editing I said I'd do last time? Yeah, I just did it. I'm sure it's still not perfect, so feel free to let me know if you notice something. I wrote this in Canadian English, though, which is the mutant baby of Yank and Brit spelling, so any 'u's or 'e's that seem out of place probably aren't (although they certainly might be).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon Snow returns to Winterfell, and even Tyrion can see how much things have changed in such a short time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, heh, this one also took forever. Sorry. The good news is that the next two chapters of this are pretty much already finished. So, um, there's that, right?

In the end, getting to Winterfell was a matter of no great difficulty, relative to how things might have been. Lord Commander Mormont had, as Tyrion had predicted, been displeased at the loss of Jon, but he'd been agreeable enough, even providing them with an escort. The road was as cold and dull as ever and Tyrion and his cluster of westermen were even more miserable about it than they'd been on their first trip. Yoren and the other Black Brothers who'd come along with them bore it well enough. Perhaps they were only glad to get away from the Wall. Jon was well served either by his blood or his stoicism, for even though he shivered and his face grew wind burnt along with the rest of them, he uttered not a word of complaint. When Tyrion had pointed it out, Jon had only laughed and suggested that Tyrion and his men were doing enough complaining for the lot of them. With Benjen Stark not glowering at his back, it was not such a point of pride for Tyrion to endure his discomfort in silence. What Jon had said had, perhaps, been a little insolent, but it was unequivocally true and it had made Tyrion laugh, and so Jon had gotten away with it. Tyrion was unsettlingly aware that he let Jon Snow away with rather too much, and found he did not wish to question why. It was a question for another time, when he had more than half-formed suspicions about what in the seven hells was happening to them.

They stopped at such meagre settlements as they happened upon and were usually able to beg or pay for some sort of shelter that offered greater comfort than their tents and fire pits. It was always on the condition that Ghost remain outdoors, but Jon offered no argument, and the direwolf was as silent as ever.

Ghost, more than his master, grew increasingly anxious as they neared Winterfell. Jon grew even quieter than usual and often appeared to be deep in thought, but he didn't hold himself apart from the other men and still seemed to be in better spirits than Tyrion and his guard. Almost like clockwork, his great white beast loped far ahead of them, then returned and caught Jon's sleeve in his teeth, tugging. Once he nipped at Jon's mare's flank, and the horse was so alarmed it deposited him neatly in a snow drift. Jon swore and berated Ghost, who cocked his head in a passable impersonation of an unrepentant child and trotted off ahead again. Even still, he left the horses alone afterwards.

Jon's ire didn't keep Ghost from bounding entirely away from them in the last few miles outside Winterfell. If he was ever wont to make any noise at all, Tyrion felt sure the animal would have been baying. When Winterfell's walls loomed large before them, they heard a wolf's howl, and Jon's interest piqued in a twitchy manner more befitting his animal companion than a man. Four direwolves met them, in the end, with Ghost at the head of the group. Tyrion recognized one as Grey Wind, the black one as the smallest Stark's ridiculously named Shaggydog, and the last, silver and shining as the snow, as young Brandon's. All four of them made straight for Jon, who laughed merrily and scarcely managed to dismount before finding himself flat on his back under a pile of jumping direwolves. He raised his forearms to protect himself, but he didn't evince any fear or discomfort, and Tyrion saw more than a few of the men amongst their travelling companions looking on in disbelief. The animals had practically doubled in size since Tyrion had first seen them, and even if Jon wasn't intimidated by the beasts, even if they didn't mean to hurt him, it seemed he was at risk of being trampled. The direwolves were so pleased to see their brothers' master that Tyrion found himself wondering what the direwolves knew that he and Jon did not, but he dismissed the thought with a conscious effort. Jon tussled his way out from under his brothers' pets and continued on foot, the direwolves at his heels and his horse's reins in his hand, but it was more surprising when Robb, Rickon, and Theon Greyjoy met them scant moments later.

Jon exercised remarkable restraint in not launching himself at his brothers, but his posture eased once he realized who was coming for them for certain. Rickon, ultimately, was the one who ran to throw himself at Jon, and Jon knelt to catch the child and settle him over his hip. 

“You came back!” Rickon cried. He looked up at Jon reproachfully when he continued, “Everyone told me you weren't, you know.”

“I didn't think I was, little one,” Jon said truthfully. “Not for a very long time.”

“I'm glad you did,” Rickon replied seriously. “But if you came back... that means everyone else will too, doesn't it?”

Jon grinned at Rickon, convincing enough for the child's sake, but his uncertainty was clear enough to the grown folk looking on. “I'm sure they will,” he agreed. Jon wasn't lying, Tyrion thought, if only because he himself wanted to desperately to believe it was true. “We bigger folks have all had responsibilities to see to. It doesn't mean we won't come home, some day.” Jon strode to Robb and gave him a fervent but still perfectly proper brotherly hug, still dangling Rickon from his side. With more hesitation, he clapped a hand on Theon's shoulder. “Have you two held up all right, then?”

Theon laughed and returned the gesture. “You won't believe it, but I've actually almost missed you. You're a miserable prick, Snow, but as it turns out, so's Robb, when he hasn't got his big brother to play with.” Tyrion thought he saw Jon's cheeks colour faintly at that, but they were pink enough from the cold that it wasn't obvious.

Robb glared at Theon, but there was no real ire behind it. “See how you feel when you've not had a good night's sleep in the last month.”

“How did you know we were...?” Jon started to ask, but Robb cut him off.

“It's a little obvious, don't you think? Grey Wind and the others. All three of them just up and left. When I saw Ghost...”

“Boys,” Tyrion interrupted, then corrected himself. “Lord Stark. Might we continue this happy little reunion indoors? I shudder to think what I might be capable of for the promise of warmth in my bones.”

Theon sneered at him. “Yes, about that. You see, we've all been wondering what precisely you are capable of.”

“ _Theon,_ ” Robb interjected. “He's our guest and you'll treat him as such. He's not responsible for what happened to Bran. He can't have been. He was with Jon.”

“It's hardly that simple,” Theon argued. “Are you sure you want him around--”

“He didn't do it, Theon,” Jon asserted. “Whatever else you think of me, you know I'd sooner kill the man who did this to Bran than speak for him. We've got reason enough to prove it. I'll explain, but I'd prefer to do it over a cup of wine, and I want to see Bran.” Theon didn't respond except for a frown, and Jon seemed to choose to take it for reluctant agreement.

Robb gave them something approaching a formal reception in the great hall, before Maester Luwin, Theon, and the Black Brothers who had accompanied Tyrion and Jon. He'd grown some few inches since the last time Tyrion had laid eyes on him; he was a good deal taller than Jon, now, though he'd grown thinner for it and looked worn. Still, Robb somehow managed to look larger in the Starks' great weirwood throne. Hasty as the formality was, Tyrion did not miss the way they were offered bread, salt, and wine almost immediately. Robb Stark rose another mark in Tyrion's estimation. His brother had returned to his home, Robb announced in a tone that brooked no argument, and Tyrion Lannister was their honoured guest. No one was to subvert his will, on pain of violating both guests' right and their lord's command, and if they objected they were to see Robb personally. 

Robb Stark had grown into his father's seat as quickly as had been asked of him, but what, Tyrion wondered, was he suffering for it?

Tyrion excused himself delicately from Jon's initial reunion with his injured brother, electing instead to take a wineskin and the book he was presently working on and wait in the hall, sitting in the deep recess of a windowsill. The ancient woman who served as Bran Stark's nurse left the boy's room, followed by Robb, who brought a chair for her. She sat seemingly engrossed in her needlework and said not a word to Tyrion. In the hall, Theon Greyjoy had excused himself with Rickon in tow, with the vague excuse of needing to see to something on Robb's behalf, and Tyrion saw from the look of gratitude on Robb's face that it likely wasn't an excuse – Robb honestly didn't have the time to excuse himself from his duties, even for this. _Your loyalty to your captors is touching,_ Tyrion remembered telling Theon, but he wondered now if that loyalty was to Robb Stark himself rather than his house. Even so, any measure of true principle or loyalty in a son of Balon Greyjoy's was likely an improvement, not that Tyrion meant to delude himself into believing most thought any better of his own house. The ironborns' fondness for conquest was certainly cruder than the mercenary nature Lann the Clever had first instilled in the Lannisters. They were a means to the same end, perhaps, but Tyrion liked to think – truly believed – that his own family's methods were rather more civil, perhaps even honourable, though to him the word meant not at all the same thing as it did to the Starks.

Some time later Robb came out to find him, beckoned him in, then thought better of it and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Bran doesn't know,” he said shortly, seeming not to care about the old woman's presence. He looked as though there might have been tears drying on his face, but there was nothing left in his expression to betray it. “You will not tell him. You will not upset him.” There was nothing threatening about the young man's demeanour, only a steely resolve, and Tyrion supposed he was allowed that much, even if it made him wonder how he'd have been received if fate and his own recklessness had not thrust Jon Snow upon him.

“I would not dream of it,” was all Tyrion replied. “I only mean to make my greetings and give the lad my best wishes, yes? I'll speak to him again, if you will allow it. If you will not, I'll leave any questions to Jon.”

“He doesn't know anything that will help you,” Robb said, unsure. “He does not need to. You having done this doesn't make sense, and if Lord Baelish is the sort of man you claim he is... Well, then, that certainly does.”

Tyrion did not mince words. “All I have is Jon's word. What of it, then, if your mother names him turncloak, if she claims I took him on with the promise of coin or position?”

“I will not believe that. I hardly can. I know the truth of it, after all,” Robb pointed out, a flicker of discomfort crossing his expression. “Nor will father, I think.” He set his mouth into a firm line, the instant of uncertainty disappearing. “I love my brothers. I won't see one of them denied justice and the other falsely condemned.”

“A good answer,” Tyrion admitted. “Perhaps not good enough to serve in the long run, for the others concerned, but more than good enough for me to trust you as far as I could trust anyone in this matter. May I see Bran?” Robb nodded assent and offered a hand to help him down from the window, precise enough not to slight Tyrion's dignity.

As he entered the room, Tyrion's breath stuttered in his throat for an instant at the sight that greeted him. The tears he'd thought he'd seen on Robb's face had surely been there, just as were the ones swimming in Jon's eyes and still trailing down Bran's pale cheeks. Bran looked more a tired old man than a young boy, and his gaunt fingers were knotted in a death grip around the sweat stained, fetid shirt Jon had been wearing under his travelling garb since they'd left the Wall. Tyrion did not think the little boy would have released his brother for anything, thought he seemed to feel as if Jon had returned from the dead. Jon, for his part, had Bran's other hand pressd beneath his own. For all Tyrion had been through with Jon Snow, it was the first time he'd truly seen the boy cry. Bran's pet, the one Robb had mentioned in passing was now called Summer, was laying at the foot of the bed with Ghost beside him, the white beast's paw crossed over the grey one's. Grey Wind stood hunched before them, much as Robb stood by the bed his brothers sat on, as if to protect them. _I should not be here right now,_ Tyrion told himself, _but Jon would not be here at all, but for me, and I must mind my own interest._

“Brandon,” Tyrion greeted the damaged child, after far too long. “Hello. It's wonderful to see you awake, if some the worse for wear.” Robb scowled at Tyrion at the mention of his brother's condition, but he was not much more inclined to dance around the truth of Bran Stark's condition than he was Jon Snow's.

“Hello, Lord Imp,” Bran said in a small, quavering voice. Tyrion smiled. Neither Arya nor Bran had ever much shied away from his nickname before, and it suited him fine, though he'd noticed how it chagrined their elder sister. Honesty from children was of rather more value than false courtesy from their elders. “Jon tells me that you're why he was able to return home so soon. Thank you. You can call me Bran, if you want.”

“You're quite welcome, Bran,” Tyrion replied graciously. “Your brother felt the time had come for him to make his own way in the world. I merely offered him an alternate occupation.”

Bran frowned, and when he said, “Jon could have stayed here,” Tyrion heard an echo of Robb's earlier insistence. Bran could hardly have been expected to understand, but Tyrion marvelled that Robb could be so oblivious to his mother's unkindness and that Lady Stark could not understand the injustice she'd done her own children in making their half-brother feel so unwelcome.

“Be that as it may,” Tyrion deflected, “I swear to you he'll come to no harm that I might prevent in my service. You have my thanks for your hospitality.”

Bran looked surprised. It was the proper oberservance to make to the lord of the castle's siblings, but Bran must have thought little enough about the rule of Winterfell. He could hardly be blamed. “Of course. That's what we do for visiting lords, after all.”

Tyrion chuckled. “Indeed it is, in most circumstances. Jon tells me you like to ride, Bran.”

Jon gaped at him in stunned, hurt disbelief, one of the lingering tears welling up to catch in his lashes. He scrubbed it away with irritation. Robb glared and drew himself up to his full height, muscles curled as if to strike. “Lannister,” Robb snapped. “Whatever--”

Tyrion raised a pacifying hand. “I only ask because it's quite possible,” he assured the brothers. “You should know, Jon. Have you never thought how I could ride that great beast of mine? You've spent long enough with my saddle ahead of you or beside you, have you never really looked at it?” He spoke with a measure of reproach, having thought Jon observant enough to notice. Jon knew him well enough to believe him, didn't look so betrayed any more, but Robb only looked even more irritated at the way he'd spoken to Jon.

“I... I can't use my legs at all,” Bran said in a small voice. “Yours might be small, Imp, but...”

“It makes no matter,” Tyrion dismissed him briskly. “With the right restraints and the proper horse, you will ride as well as any man, and sit as high in the saddle, when you're grown. You should even be able to shoot, with a modified bow. I've taken the liberty of designing something that ought to suffice, though I fear I cannot offer you a horse. You'll want to start with a yearling, and you'll be able to train it to respond to your voice as well as other men's heels.”

Bran sat forward in his bed, finally releasing Jon, and he lit up, shaving decades from his face. “Truly?”

Jon was gaping at him again, but this time it was with something like gratitude shining in his eyes. “When did you do that?”

Tyrion grinned. “I had a great many hours to myself when we made camp on our journey, Jon. It's hardly my fault you never asked what I was about when I took to drawing rather than reading, is it? It's not so dissimilar from my own saddle, and I've seen horses trained to respond to the spoken word before.”

“And you're sure this will work?” Robb asked warily. The subtext clearly went thus: _You don't want to know what I'll do to you if you've given him false hope._

“Quite. I'm certain Maester Luwin will agree with me,” Tyrion replied affably. He was sure his design would work, if not its precise measurements; he was not fool enough to say so, otherwise. “But I must ask your leave to take your brothers with me. We've things we must discuss that would not interest you in the least.” Bran's face fell, and Jon frowned, but it was clear enough that he saw the truth of it. “Jon and I shall tarry here awhile, I think, if your lord brother will have us.” Jon shot him a grateful look. Tyrion did not mention that Robb had told he and Jon upon their arrival that Catelyn Stark was easily a month away from Winterfell, but it was true enough when he continued, “I've had rather enough of travel, just yet, and I'm sure Jon would be pleased to have some time to visit. I myself will relish the chance to see my invention in practice.”

Jon's fingers closed over the back of Bran's hand, and he leaned down to kiss his younger brother's forehead. “My Lord of Lannister speaks the truth, little brother. If I promise I'll come back after supper--”

“Go,” Bran interrupted with an effort, with a resignation that did not sit well on such a small child. “It's okay. I'm used to Robb being busy.” Robb looked crestfallen. When Jon met Robb's eyes, he hid his flinch poorly. Tyrion cleared his throat.

“Take a minute, then,” he said kindly. “I'll wait outside, shall I?” He walked to the door, catching a glimpse of Robb sitting on Bran's bed opposite Jon, clasping the little boy's shoulder and murmuring something urgent that must have been an apology. Jon's eyes followed him. For all the gratitude Tyrion saw writ on the boy's face, he looked positively stricken. Perhaps Tyrion needed to revise his earlier thought. The world was, in fact, being rather crueler to the Stark children than it was to most their age. But other children, even younger ones, had endured worse, and for all his instinctive distaste for the Starks, he did not think Ned Stark's children were made of quite the same stuff their forebears had been.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having seen Jon's family is as whole as can be expected, the "adults" finally get to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still writing this, slowly but surely. Life and the fact that I hate every third sentence I write at this part of the story have been complicating things, but I'm getting there. I still have a lot of the stuff to come written, it seems to be flowing better than this bit.

Robb was Lord of Winterfell in all but name, but the chambers he led Jon and Tyrion to were the same ones he'd had since he was six, the ones he and Jon had shared before they'd outgrown sharing a bed. Jon knew without asking that Robb had done it because he still couldn't feel at home in their father's solar, even if it was technically _Robb's,_ now. As it had always been, the room was sparse enough; it certainly looked lived in, but there was nothing at all ostentatious about it. It contained all the furniture and fixtures one might expect: a bed, a nightstand with a lamp, a basin of water, and a desk scattered with books, the new tray of food and wine Robb had asked one of the maids for, and the remnants of a platter of fruit. There was a closet full of clothing and a fireplace with furs on the stone floor beside it. A pair of boots were drying before the hearth, and there was a small pile of wrinkled clothing at the foot of the bed. 

For Tyrion's benefit, Robb apologized that he and his siblings had always been expected to see to the neatness of their own spaces, and despite his telling the servants to treat him as they always had – this felt like a stubborn denial of the truth on Robb's part, to Jon - he hadn't recently managed to find the time. Jon thought he should have asked for help – their father had always had people to tend to his space, after all, since he found little time to clean after attending to his duties, and wasn't that the position Robb had found himself in now? The part about “not having the time,” though, that was a joke if Jon had ever heard one. Since Lady Catelyn had deemed him old enough to deserve the privacy of his own chambers and stopped checking on their condition, Robb had almost entirely stopped cleaning them, save when he was seized by a spirit of motivation.

“You can't really think you're fooling me, Robb. This is bloody good, by your standards,” Jon teased. Jon was still exhausted and heartsick, but he had finally seen Bran with his own eyes, and even if he wasn't alone with Robb, they were away from the worst of the prying eyes. Enough of the weight had lifted from Jon's shoulders to allow him a measure of levity. “You've only ever tidied up when I did it for you or I threatened to stop coming here.” Tyrion cocked his head at Robb, but offered no reproach, only a wry grin. At Robb's offended look, Jon could only smirk. “Forgive me, _my lord._ I should not have embarrassed you before our honoured guest. Whom you, perhaps, should not have brought back to this midden heap.”

“Not a problem,” Tyrion put in genially. “I've paid to give custom to whorehouses in rather worse condition. As my lodgings here are both not in this particular room and without cost – though I assume, sadly, that they also come without a woman to warm my bed – I can hardly complain.”

Relieved, Robb laughed and swatted at Jon's shoulder. The expression on Robb's face when his amusement washed away still might have been a smile, if it hadn't looked so worn around the edges. “You're right,” he admitted quietly. “But it is true, Jon. When I have time to myself I've been spending it with Bran or Rickon, mostly. Bran, he... you saw. He is trying to be brave, but he's ten, and he's broken, and he woke up and everyone had gone. He's angry and he's frightened and it's not as if can you blame him for it. And Rickon, he has no idea how to cope. I can't say as I would have at his age, either.”

Chastened, Jon reached out to catch his brother's cheek in his hand, ghosting a thumb over Robb's temple. “You do look exhausted,” he realized, abashed. “I'm sorry. I should have thought...”

“You're forgiven,” Robb answered wryly. “You are right, it's not as if I've ever been known for neatness. I just have an excuse now. I've made the girl meant to see to my chambers half mad, not letting her see to things in here.” He stopped then, irresolute, before tilting his head towards Jon's and running a hand up Jon's arm to curl his fingers through Jon's hair. Robb laughed. “I see you've let that rat's nest grow back,” he said, but his scorn belied the gentle comb of his fingers through the curls. Jon made a soft noise and tilted his forehead to rest against Robb's. They stood there like that for several seconds before both were startled out of their reverie by the clap of Tyrion's hands.

“Much as I would like to remind you that my skin is at risk – in fact, that our collective skin is at risk,” the dwarf said archly, “I can also see that I ought to have anticipated this, and I wish to revel in the fruits of civilization. As such, I'm off to take a bath and a cup of warm wine. Likely several. You may have the day to yourself, Jon. We will convene after Bran's gone to bed, at which time I hope to have your undivided attention.”

Robb jerked away from Jon, blushing. In an instant, he'd managed to school his face and posture into a valiant attempt at courtly cordiality; in the space of a heartbeat, he'd slipped on the mantle of lordship and gone from warm and familiar to distant and foreign. Or at least he'd tried, even if he hadn't done it as well as before. “Of course, my lord,” he almost squeaked. “Shall I have someone show you...”

Tyrion was biting back open laughter at Robb's clumsy carriage – Jon would know that barely concealed grin anywhere, by now, and was only glad that for once it wasn't being levelled at him. Even with his attempt at politesse, Tyrion couldn't keep a chuckle from his voice when he waved the offer away. “No, I believe I'll be just fine. You've had them arrange my amenities in the place I kept when last I was here, have you not?” 

“Just so, my lord,” Robb agreed needlessly, Tyrion having been present when he'd done so. Robb could hold a commanding air admirably, when he had not been caught off guard. If he hadn't known Robb's face almost as well as his own, Jon would nearly have been been hard put to connect the young lord who had sat before them in the great hall an hour before with the younger brother he'd spoken to the morning he and Tyrion had left Winterfell. Now, with his face less stern and his cheeks pink, it was much easier to see they were in fact the same person. It was good to see, even he knew the softness left in his brother might not serve him well at times.

Jon was less awkward, if only because of his greater familiarity with Tyrion. He was not a man to be ruffled by being called “Imp” or “Halfman,” and he was certainly not a man with much expectation of others standing on ceremony in his presence. If anything, he seemed to find it tiresome. “You'll not require anything of me?”

“No, boy,” Tyrion replied, in that warm tone that made Jon feel half the little man's pet and half his son, even though Tyrion wasn't really old enough for it to even be possible. It wasn't quite condescension, though Jon had used to think it such and be rankled, nor was it quite fondness. Perhaps that was what it was, to have a friend who was truly a man grown. Jon had nothing to compare it to. Jory Cassel had always been fond of and kind to he and Robb both, but Jon often felt the man would never be able to look at either of them without seeing a little boy throwing snowballs. Jon shook his head slowly, trying to clear it of the thoughtful haze blurring Tyrion's words as he continued, “I won't. All I require is your absence. There has been little enough privacy on the road and I shall enjoy having some. As I would imagine you will. I do expect you in better form this evening, however.”

“Of course,” Jon replied automatically. 

Tyrion left without another word, and Jon was left facing Robb, the silence between them more uncomfortable than Jon imagined either of them could ever recall it having been. It was the longest they'd ever been apart, these past several fortnights, and for all that a large part of Jon simply wanted to throw himself at Robb, too much had happened for that to come as naturally as it once would have. There was too much to be said for things to be that simple, and yet Jon found he could not even find the words to speak. It hadn't been so difficult, when they'd been in others' company; it had been as easy as falling back into the ruse they'd practised in public for most of the past three years. Stark and Snow, with any untoward warmth between them excusable as the camaraderie felt between brothers who had been almost unfailingly at each other's side since Robb had begun toddling after Jon on shaky legs in infancy. 

Only now there was no need for the charade, and Jon was finding it was as difficult to discard it as it had been to adopt it in the first place. He remembered how he'd struggled at first after the first time Robb had kissed him, to keep from betraying the way his blood surged at the briefest of Robb's touches. It was an impulse Jon had only completely bested when he'd realized that he was having the same effect on Robb. After that it had become a sort of reckless game. Jon had found himself much less easily flustered when he was trained on the way Robb would tense or faintly colour at a whisper into his ear or the enforced closeness of a corrected stance. In a fit of irritation, once, when Winterfell had had guests, Robb had asked Jon what precisely he thought he was playing at, if he meant to get them caught. It had been just before he'd dragged Jon to the bed on top of him, and the real reason for his anger had been plain: it wasn't that he'd truly worried they'd been indiscreet (no more than usual, at least, which was precious little enough, that evening in the godswood had been brought on by drink and emotion), it was that Robb's nerves had begun to fray at the hundred little surreptitious things Jon had done since they'd last managed to be alone. There was always the worry, lurking around the edges, the sure knowledge that no one must ever know, but Jon felt that just as sharply as Robb did. Any push at all was pushing too far, Jon had known, but for all that he found he sometimes couldn't help himself, he'd never once lost the sense that caution was paramount. It had always been enough to keep them as safe as they could hope to be, thinking of what they both stood to lose coupled with the faint sense of shame that neither of them had ever been able to feel quite the way they should have.

Much the way he'd been that first time almost three years before, Robb was the one to challenge the wary, expectant silence between them. He moved away from Jon, moved the wine and the cups from his desk to the nightstand, and settled on his bed. “Come on, then,” he said, cocking his head. After a moment of eye contact, Robb looked away hastily, busying his hands with the wine. “Sit. Gods know we need to talk.”

“Talk,” Jon echoed hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “Right,” he agreed in a less strained tone as he sat. “I suppose we do.” He took the cup of wine Robb offered him and sipped at it. “We are going to want our wits about us, you know.”

Robb's grin was wide but forced. “I've had to have my wits about me constantly, since father left. I hardly need to be reminded. Besides, wine gets so it doesn't fog your head so much, once you get used to it.”

“And you... have. Gotten used to it, I mean,” Jon clarified hastily.

Robb laughed faintly. “It's funny, really. The moment everyone thinks you're in charge, they start trying to feed you wine at every turn. I'm still not sure if it's because they think I must need it or because they're trying to get me off my guard. Little of both, most like.”

“You're probably right,” Jon agreed, looking into his cup. “I don't have much to tell. Uncle Benjen left ranging two weeks before my name day. He promised to be back for it,” Jon added with a frown, “but no one else seemed terribly concerned. When I asked a got a lot of rubbish about giving up your family and... Well. The Watch wasn't what I thought it would be,” he admitted, in a tone that invited no further discussion. Robb had told Jon that a hundred times, trying to talk him out of leaving, but he'd had no more way of knowing the truth of it than Jon had. “Travel was as comfortable as one could hope for, mostly because Lannister clings to his creature comforts like a babe to his mother's teat. I'd tell you not to tell him I said that, but I think he'd only laugh. He's... a very strange man. It makes the, ah, the squiring a little difficult. I can never tell if he's serious or not until he's yelling at me for not following orders or laughing at me for listening to him. The only thing he's told me to do in so many words is read a book and kiss some miserable prick of an excuse for a master-at-arms' arse at the Wall..”

“Yes, and that's about as likely as me cleaning up after myself, isn't it?” Robb teased. “You've never liked to read and you've always been as stubborn as an aurochs. This may just be even more beneficial for you than you thought.”

“Sometimes I think he thinks I'm stupid,” Jon continued. “And then right when I start to think that, he starts telling me how smart I am. If not for what he's been accused of, I'd think this was all a game to him, except that sometimes he seems to truly care for me.”

Robb studied Jon for a long moment. “Should I be honest?” he asked. Jon's brow knit, and he drained his cup and set it aside – he thought he'd picked up the habit of gulping his drink from Tyrion – but he nodded, and Robb went on, “I think everything he does is a game, to some extent, but I do think he cares for you. I can't place the nature of it for the life of me, but... The look he gave Theon, earlier, when he was teasing you...”

That made Jon snicker, even though he knew Robb wouldn't approve of what he was going to say. “Yes, that. He's not very fond of Theon, I'm afraid, and it's naught to do with any idiotic japes he's made at me. I don't know what Theon did – I could certainly think of a few things,” he added unnecessarily, unable to help himself, “but no, Tyrion Lannister does not much like Theon at all, and it has little enough to do with me.”

“I don't know that I believe that,” Robb said mildly, “but even still. Whatever the reason for it, the Imp likes you. And you like the Imp, I think.”

Jon shrugged. “Maybe five weeks traipsing further north against all rational thought will do that. He's certainly nothing like his brother or his nephew.”

“And thank the gods for that. I am glad for you, Jon,” Robb said softly. “You were taking a leap of faith, going off with him--”

“I was going anyway,” Jon interrupted to remind Robb. Jon felt like an ass as soon as it had left his mouth, realizing he'd opened an old wound without any real cause for doing so, but Robb only scowled.

“Shut up,” Robb said crossly. Jon laughed, took a long moment to study Robb's screwed up face, so like it had been in childhood, and suddenly his reservations were gone, like the tingling warmth the wine was seeping into his extremities had washed them away. He couldn't remember why he'd been nervous to kiss Robb in the first place. He suddenly couldn't fathom why he would ever be nervous to kiss Robb, considering the hundreds of times he'd done it before and how badly he'd wanted to when he'd first seen him that morning. Not wanting to do anything unwelcome – wondering, vaguely, if Robb at least had come to his senses and reconsidered things between them – Jon steeled himself and levelled his gaze with Robb's deliberately. He barely got a reaction, just a slight parting of Robb's lips and a narrowing of his eyes, but it bolstered his confidence. That, too, he'd seen countless times, and Jon knew it was as much of an invitation as being asked.

Jon shifted to his knees and caught Robb's wrist in his hand, drawing the wine cup Robb still held out of his way. He leaned across the bed and brushed his lips against Robb's delicately, telling himself his caution was due to the cup and not his lingering misgivings. Robb's breath puffed out harshly against his cheek as he withdrew, and Jon swore he felt Robb's pulse pick up a little under Jon's fingers at his wrist. Relieved, Jon gave a rough chuckle, took the wine from Robb's unresisting hand and set it aside, and kissed him again. Robb got a chance to react, this time, moving his lips against Jon's and giving himself over to the contact as wholly as he ever had. Jon let his tongue dart out to swipe over Robb's lower lip. He sat back when he felt a shiver run through Robb's body, grinning like a fool.

“I was a little afraid to do that,” Jon admitted. As pleased as he was, he still felt uncomfortably exposed. “I've no idea why. If Lannister hadn't been here when we got here...”

Robb sighed. “I know,” he agreed. His voice was a little weak when he shrugged and said, “Ah, well, it's not as if any of this has ever made sense, is it?”

Jon didn't think he really wanted an answer, but the question still sent a pang through him. They never had, after all, and they never would, not in any way they could make anyone else understand. It was not wanting to confront that truth that made him babble, “I lied. I do know why I was afraid to do that. There's already so much happening here, and I... I didn't want to do anything that might make things harder for you.”

Robb's eyes filled with something like guilt, something Jon had seen far too much since that morning, and his fingers brushed cold over Jon's cheek. It felt a little more like the casual intimacy Jon was used to, and he tilted his head slightly to follow the touch. “Jon. Look at me,” Robb said firmly. It was a command, sure enough, but not from a lord, only one from someone who had every reason to expect Jon to oblige him as he always had at times like these. Robb was more often the yielding one of the two of them, but it was a balance that shifted when Jon began feeling sorry for himself. “Nothing you do – or nothing like that, at least – nothing like that will ever make things worse for me. Well, as long as you don't do it at supper,” he added ruefully. “I suppose that could make things a great deal more difficult, couldn't it?”

“Yes,” Jon breathed, “I suppose it could. But we're not at supper now, and I've missed you. Come here,” he told Robb in a tone that brooked no argument, opening his arms and propping himself up against the bed's headboard.

Jon caught a glimpse of Robb's eyes widening before he obliged, settling back against Jon's chest and squirming to get comfortable. He wound up fitting there as well as he ever had, Jon noted with pleasure. “As innocent as all that, then?” Robb asked, voice dripping with false offence. “Aren't you supposed to want to rip my clothes off?”

“All in good time,” Jon promised warmly. His blood had warmed and his belly had tightened at the press of Robb's body against his own, and he couldn't say the idea didn't hold a great deal of appeal, but he spoke honestly when he explained, “I'm too sore, too tired, and we've too much we need to talk about. I'm pleased you're here and I certainly have plans, but it hurts to move.”

“Past your prime at your age, are you?” Robb taunted without malice.

“No,” Jon replied tartly. “You've just gotten rather less attractive in our old age. And not a word, you know you deserved that.”

“Mm. Besides, you smell terrible.” Robb pressed his cheek against Jon's chest. “And I did, didn't I?”

“You see? You're half asleep already.”

Robb made a low burr of protest in the back of his throat. “I'm doing no such thing. I'm just relaxed, that's all. Father may have made running things around here look easy, but it's not. It's quite difficult, actually.”

“I'll leave you to your pride about your chambers, such as it is, but why haven't you replaced Vayon Poole? You needn't put him out of his position forever, but if you need the help...”

Robb tensed, his muscles knotting again, feeling as tense as he'd looked when Jon had first seen him that morning.“Who's going to take the job? There's no one for it! Theon does what he can, but it would hardly be proper for him to be steward in name, and it would be an insult to his station for me to ask. The only person who could have done it was you.” Jon felt a twinge of irritation when he heard that, the unintended implication that Theon was above a position that apparently would have been fine for him, but he bit his lip and tried to ignore it; ultimately it was true, if tactless. Robb noticed anyway, probably feeling the same twitch of tension Jon had felt run through Robb. “That's not at all what I meant. Everyone here, they'd accept you. They'd never accept Theon. It may not be fair to either of you, but it is true.”

Jon chewed on his lip, afraid he knew exactly what Robb meant to lead up to. “Yes, well, that's clearly not an option, is it?” 

Robb gave a soft huff. “Isn't it?”

“Seven hells,” Jon couldn't keep from swearing under his breath. “No, it isn't. You _know_ that. You haven't forgotten, have you, that I'm the only one who can prove the Imp's innocence?”

A stubborn note crept into Robb's voice. “No. But he should stand trial here.”

Jon looked down at his brother incredulously. “Are you listening to yourself at all right now, or have you just gone mad? You're asking me to stand by while you imprison an innocent man who's done us both a kindness. It might be no one would believe him, but he could tell them what he saw. I'd hardly blame him, if you acted out such folly. And that's before we even touch the bloody political implications. Have you forgotten who it is you're talking about?”

“No,” Robb insisted. “That wasn't what I meant. I... Damn it, Jon, you're right. Just forget I said anything.”

Sometimes, Jon thought, he felt the weight of every single one of the few weeks he was older than Robb, felt every way the circumstances of his birth had hastened his growth. Robb had always been his best friend and his greatest advocate, and Jon had always been willing to forgive him most anything for that. Protecting Robb from his discord with Lady Stark had always come naturally, had always been something he'd just instinctively known to do. She was never truly cruel, exactly, for all that she was icy, and even when it stung Jon had always done his best to remind himself she didn't owe him anything. Robb had always sensed when he couldn't quite quash his upset over whatever had happened that day, had helped him work out the hurt and tension one way or another, but they never mentioned Lady Catelyn much, even when Robb had to have known that she was at the heart of the problem. Sometimes Robb would ask, and Jon would lie, and they'd move on as if it had been the truth.

It was only his instinct to protect Robb and his ingrained willingness to forgive him that allowed him to swallow his disquiet. Robb wouldn't do it, Jon knew he wouldn't. He'd known from the moment the words had left Robb's mouth that he wouldn't do it. He deserved a good dressing down for so much as saying it, and Jon meant to find the proper time for it later, but Jon couldn't bring himself to completely ruin their comfort. His reluctance, Jon insisted stubbornly to himself, had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he no longer truly had the liberty of reprimanding Robb. He never really had, after all, and Robb had always taken it at face value, as a quarrel between brothers or... whatever they were, and Jon had no reason to believe that had changed, even if everything else had.

Jon settled for voicing a less accusing opinion. “You have to stop this,” he murmured, brushing his lips over Robb's forehead. “I've told you. I don't want to leave you – or Bran or Rickon – any more than I ever did. That certainly does _not_ mean I don't have to. More now than ever, in fact. My debt to the man aside, I don't know what will happen if Tyrion Lannister is tried and executed for murder and I have no wish to, all I know is it's likely to put us all in danger. I can see that you're tired. I imagine you miss everyone, if you've felt like I have. But the best thing I can do to help you, father, and anyone else of any import to either of us is go south. Surely you can see that.”

Robb didn't agree aloud, but the way he melted back against Jon and blew out a shaky breath against his neck was confirmation enough. “You must think me utterly pathetic,” he mumbled miserably. “I know I'm not being fair. I know you have to go. I just wish not _everyone_ had gone.”

Jon frowned, an uncomfortable ache unfolding in his chest. Pathetic was decidedly not the word for the way he felt about Robb's current state. Jon was exasperated with him, there was no denying that, and Robb may even have seemed outright pitiful, to Jon's eyes – but Jon knew that wasn't the side of himself he was showing to everyone else. Robb always tried to seem strong, always meant to put his best face forward; he only ever shared his doubts or fears with his parents, sometimes Theon, or Jon. It was a function of their intimacy that Jon had always borne most of the brunt of it. Robb would have been faring much better in the outside world than he appeared to be here, alone with Jon.

“I don't think you're pathetic,” Jon said firmly. “Not at all. I think you've probably done very well. But I don't believe you can keep this up, Robb. You do not seem... well. You're not meant to do this alone, you know. It pains me to say this, but Greyjoy plainly wants to help you. I cannot advise listening to him, overmuch, but he's capable enough and he cares for you, for all that he's an ass. Yes, you're meant to be responsible for everyone's well being – but they're all supposed to support you in doing that, and most of them will be happy to, if you'll let them.”

Robb laughed, though it was neither a happy sound nor a harsh one. “You must be concerned,” he said wryly, “to tell me that about Theon.”

“I am,” Jon agreed without preamble. “I know you can do this, Robb. You've been doing it. The keep's not fallen to the ground, has it?” He felt Robb shake a little with laughter, then, and smiled to himself. “I know you didn't mean what you said, just now, but you're not doing yourself any favours even thinking about it. Lannister told me something about facing hard truths once... I was drunk and not paying much attention, to be honest, but if I could remember exactly what it was he said I think it would apply here. The girls were always to be married and father was probably always going to be called to the king's side one day. You were always going to have to take his place when that happened, and I was always meant for... something else. Maybe it wasn't the Wall, maybe that was only a child's fancy, but I was always going to have to leave, at least for awhile. You can want me here all you like, it's not going to change the fact that I have to do something to _deserve_ to be here first. I'd go mad, serving as a steward or on the household guard, and I'd be no more welcome than I've ever been.”

Robb didn't protest that remark, and Jon felt a little like he might finally have gotten through to him. Robb sighed. “I guess you're right. As usual. Must you always be so gods-be-damned reasonable?”

Jon laughed. “I don't believe anyone's ever accused me of that before,” he said. “Least of all you. Still, I'll... I'll stay with you, Robb, but I really would feel better about things if you got some sleep. I'd feel better if I got some sleep, come to that. I've not slept in anything resembling a proper bed in far too long.”

At the suggestion, Robb let out a yawn, chest expanding and shrinking. He was the bigger of the two of them, more than a head taller and broader in the shoulders, but his frame relaxed with the exhalation, and he felt very small when he curled in on himself. He'd only just nestled into the crook of Jon's shoulder when he gave a pained groan. “The door,” he mumbled, though he made no move towards it.

Jon closed his eyes tightly, the closest he dared to a cringe, and extricated himself from his brother with a noise of complaint. He rose and barred the door, stopping on his way back to the bed to gulp at Robb's nearly untouched cup of wine, and returned to his previous spot, throwing an arm over Robb. Jon fell asleep nearly as quickly as Robb did, relishing in the softness of the mattress and comforted by the fact he wasn't alone – he'd grown unused to not having at least the option of company in his bed, the past few years – and pleased by the fact that this, at least, still felt like home, even if Winterfell itself no longer seemed to.


End file.
